Pieces
by 8BonnieBlue8
Summary: She presses a hand up against the shower wall and closes her eyes again. "I need you," she lets out painfully, hating herself for admitting such a weakness. She doesn't need anyone but herself, she's all she's got.   Sequal to Spilt Cofee. Brittana
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: And I'm back! I hope I haven't annoyed people too much by waiting so long to continue this series but I'm hoping this will make up for it. This is the sequel to Spilt Coffee and it's set about just before Theatricality. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to tell everyone to disregard the things that happen in season 2 since, despite the fact that it's so good (caugh*Britney/Brittany episode*caugh), it won't fit in with the rest of this series, which is going to span on for a quite a few more fics past this story that I'm uploading now. **_

_**Hope you enjoy!**_

_**. . .**_

"_I'm here again, a thousand miles away from you . . ."_

_Pieces by Red_

Santana closes her eyes as she carefully slips her normal cheerio's uniform on, back determinedly turned away from the dusty and slightly cracked mirror in her room. It's become routine by now – don't rush or you might feel the pain, don't look at the mirror until you're completely clothed or you might see something you wish you didn't, keep your ears peeled for the heavy footsteps that you don't want to hear – but no matter how much of a routine it is, how much of a habit, it never feels normal. It never stops hurting. Never.

She thinks it should, though. She thinks, or more accurately wishes, that it wouldn't bother her so much anymore, that the memories and the abuse would cease to matter after a while. It would be so much easier that way.

But, then, Santana's life has never been easy, so why start now?

The task of dressing herself completed, Santana finally opens her eyes and turns around to face the mirror. _Not a trace of anything. Just like always._

It wasn't so bad last night – mostly because Garry was too drunk to do more than knock her into the wall once or twice – so there's no need to wear a long sleeved shirt under her Cheerio's uniform to hide any of the more obvious bruises that she sometimes gets. In fact, last night was practically a good night, as far as nights here go. She even managed to get away and lock herself in her room before he could get his disgusting, greedy hands under her top.

That's what worries her.

Her stepfather had just come back from a week of being away on work yesterday and it was painfully obvious from the moment he stepped through the door that things had not gone well. Santana hadn't asked – she never said more words than was absolutely necessary to survive when it came to Garry – but she'd listened in on the conversation he'd been having with her Mum, safely hidden behind the rickety and unstable banister of the staircase.

Of course, when she says 'work' what she really means is that Garry went up to New York City to sell Cocaine to some of his more well-paying clients. Drug dealing is the only job he's had for years now, ever since he was fired from the police force six years ago (not that that last part should come as a shock to anyone – who _wouldn't_ fire him?).

Her mother knows all about Garry's 'business' as well, which isn't all that surprising since she's one of his top customers. That's how they met (how _romantic_). The only person in this house who's not supposed to know is Santana and, well, that went out the window the first time he tried to dose her up with coke – apparently it was supposed to make her more 'willing'.

It didn't.

Apparently, things didn't go as well as planned up in good old New York as, so sadly, another drug dealer had moved in on Garry's territory since the last time he was there and hardly anyone wanted to buy from her stepfather anymore.

How heartbreaking.

Anyway, needless to say, he isn't too happy about it and Santana knows, she just _knows_, that this isn't going to work out so well for her. When Garry's angry he likes to use his fists, more specifically, he likes to use them on his stepdaughter and since last night was a Drunk night, tonight will probably be the best time for Kick The Shit Out Of Santana night. She can hardly wait. Who knows, he might actually kill her this time.

Usually, when it looks like things are going to be this bad, she'd just go over and stay with Brittany but her best friend's in Holland with her parents and little sister so that's a no-go. So, with that out, there's really no where else she can go. There's no way Santana's going to rock up on Mr. Shu's doorstep or, god forbid, _Berry's_ and there's absolutely no way in hell that she's going to run into the arms of Puck and Quinn, not while they'd know exactly why she'd be doing it; Santana mentally shudders at the thought.

Everyone else in Glee pretty much falls into the category of 'Never In A Million Years'.

Well, it looks like she's going to have to find some random boy to shack up with after school. It could be fun.

She sighs, fixes her hair for the last time, and struts out of the room. Whilst passing her step-father in the hallway, she tries to ignore the creepy smirk he sends her way. 'Tries to' being the operative words.

. . .

Santana lets out a breath as she stares at the door of Kurt Hummel's house. She hates the idea of asking the little queer for help but the only guys she had been able to get a hold of –which, considering her, was quite a few – were all busy for the night; figures. At first, she'd juggled with the idea of just going back home, taking up whatever Garry had to dish, and then falling into bed for a good night's sleep.

The Latina hates to admit that she was too scared to even reach the driveway of her home.

Letting out another sigh, Santana reaches up, about to knock, but hesitates.

God, she is such a wimp.

Frowning at that thought, she lets her knuckles come down in a swift, impatient rap. It's pulled open in seconds by a ruffled and confused looking Finn Hudsen. Santana, who has no idea about how the Hudsens moved in with the Hummels, frowns in bemusement, silently wondering whether Kurt has finally managed to win the footballer's heart.

That's something she'd almost pay to see.

It seems unlikely but so is the idea of her standing on Kurt's doorstep so she doesn't dismiss it completely. In fact, she blurts out the question with a disbelieving scowl. "So, what, are you and Fancy like screwing now?"

Finn's jaw drops, his eyes bug, and for a second she thinks he's actually going to keel over and die. That or he's auditioning for the rule of one of those plastic clowns at the fairs that have you put balls down their throats. She doesn't know which one is more believable.

"Huh?" he asks after a moment, too dumbfounded to work up any other kind of response.

Santana rolls her eyes; typical. "What are you doing at Kurt's?"

"Me and my mother moved in," he responds, still looking quite shocked.

She raises an eyebrow questioningly. "You mean it's really that serious between you guys?"

Now he's even more confused; poor guy. "What?"

"Never mind," the brunette tells him briskly, remembering that there are more important things to be discussing at the moment; like sleeping arrangements for example. "I need a place to crash."

"Oh." They stare at each other for a moment longer, Finn's still quite clearly not getting it, until she glares at him pointedly and realization dawns in his eyes. "You mean here?" It comes out as a kind of horrified squeak that, up until now, Santana only thought Rachael or Kurt was capable of; Finn's masculinity level just dropped significantly in her eyes.

"Yes, here." He still seems to be looking quite astonished and she rolls her eyes, realizing that she's going to have to speak to the actual man around here if she hopes to get anything done. "Where's Kurt?"

"Sleeping over at Mercedes. He said something about a pedicure." Finn makes a face, probably imagining the horror of a night he would have had if he had been invited. "Tina and Rachael are there too."

Santana hates to admit it but there's a kind of emotional twist of the heart at the news that even _Rachael Berry_ was invited to some idiot sleepover but she wasn't. it's completely stupid and irrational of her since she probably would have turned the invitation down anyway since there's no way in hell she's spending the night with a bunch of losers that act like they've come straight out of the Sound of Music, or, in Mercedes and possibly Tina's case, Hairspray.

Then again, Quinn wasn't invited so maybe they just have something against Cheerios who've slept with Puck. That or they're forming some sort of secret society for girl losers which, if that's the case, she definitely doesn't want to be involved.

"I need a place to stay," Santana states or rather demands. She doesn't care that Finn's been avoiding her like she's a leper ever since they slept together, she is getting in this house and, _god damn it_, she is getting the best bed to sleep in, even if that means kicking Finnocence out of his own. "And you're going to let me stay here."

"But . . ."

"Ah uh. No buts," she interrupts before pushing past him into the house. Finn's so flabbergasted by the whole thing, he doesn't notice in time to stop her. The Latina glances around the hallway inquisitively, trying to get a read on where things are. "So, where's your room?"

He stares at her for a moment, shutting the door behind them, and it's clear that he's in shock. "Why?"

She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly; _such an idiot_. "Because, _Finnocence_, I need a bed to sleep in." And there's no way she's sleeping in Kurt Hummel's; she does after all have a reputation to uphold. At least Finn's on the football team, and not to mention straight, so there's really no need to feel any shame in sleeping in _his _bed. And if he really has a problem with it then she can just screw him and guilt him into letting her have it.

He looks too shocked to talk and Santana nods her head, taking that as a sign that he understands her demand and accepts it, before continuing her walk down the hallway. "Now, show me where it is."

_**A/N: Poor, poor Finn; I bet he wasn't expecting that. **_

_**I'm afraid Brittany won't be in much of this story (sigh) but she will show up eventually, whence upon I will provide you with much needed Brittana. **_


	2. On My Own

**Warning: Reference to rape, mild (possibly?) descriptions of physical abuse, and swearing.**

" _. . . I tried so hard, thought I could do this on my own_

_I've lost so much along the way . . ."_

_Pieces by Red_

"Uh, Santana, I don't know if I really feel comfortable with you sleeping in my bed," Finn mutters, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. It's clear from the expression on his face that he's afraid she's about to bite his head off at any moment. He should be – she's definitely thought about it more than once.

The Latina tries to put her best seductive grin on, though it's made pretty difficult by the memory of just how bad Finn is in bed. Quinn wasn't lying when she said he had control issues. Still, that isn't to say that he's the worst guy Santana's ever slept with, at least he's gentle. He also let her be in control which is one of the main reasons she even chooses to have sex with so many people. All in all, he was OK. "Would you feel more comfortable if you were in it _with_ me?" she practically purrs and resists the urge to laugh at his dumbfounded expression. God, she is going to enjoy messing with him.

"Santana, what are you trying to say?" Finn asks slowly and Santana rolls her eyes; she really is going to have to spell it out for him, isn't she?

"Look, I need a comfortable bed to sleep in and you, despite having lost the Big V, are in serious need of sex to stop you from becoming the 40-year-old virgin," she tells him bluntly. "And I'm not completely opposed to the idea of helping you out in that area."

Finn looks uncomfortable. "Uh, Santana, I don't really want to sleep with you. I'm kinda, you know, trying to win back Rachael."

Santana gapes at him. Unbelievable. He can't really be serious? He's turning her down for a fucking toddler dressed up in clothes that not even Santana's grandmother would have worn? "You're kidding right?"

He looks embarrassed and glances down at his feet. "Not really, no. I mean, that last time was OK, I guess, but it didn't really mean anything, you know? Nice of you to, uh, offer, though . . . I guess."

Of course she fucking knows it didn't mean anything. Who does he think she is – some silly little school girl with a crush? Better yet, someone who actually believes in romantic fantasies and that sex could actually ever be about anything more than getting off? Well, Finn could just keep on with his belief that one day he'll find sex that actually 'means' something. Though, how he's going to find that with Rachael Berry of all people she really can't see.

Santana swallows and glares at him. This is the second time that Finn Hudsen has treated her like the mere dirt he would find under his shoe. Either the football player is gay (something that really wouldn't surprise her all too much) or there's actually something seriously wrong with _her_. After all, a toddler that tries to dress up as their grandmother is definitely not eye candy; not when it comes to people with actual eyes, anyway.

Furious, she rises from the bed and pushes past him in order to get to the door. Screw Finn and screw Garry! In fact, screw everyone! This was a stupid idea in the first place. She was an idiot for ever thinking that she would be able to get help from one of the Gleeks that wasn't Brittany, and even more of an idiot for not leaving the minute she saw that Kurt wasn't even here (she may not like the loser but she knows for a fact that he's not an idiot like Finn and therefore is, at least, tolerable).

She's sixteen years old; she can deal with her own shit all by herself. She doesn't need Brittany, or Finn, or Puck and Quinn, or even the rest of the Gleeks. Hell, she doesn't need anybody but herself!

"Wait, Santana-" Finn tries, looking guilty, and reaches out a hand towards her. The minute his skin makes contact with her own she shrinks away. _No-one_ touches her without her permission.

"Fuck off, Finnocence!" The brutality of the statement is enough to stop the footballer in his tracks and he backs off, eyes wide in shock. He probably hasn't ever seen her this angry and, to be perfectly honest, she doesn't even know why she's so enraged. But she is. And she's not about to stop and think about her feelings; honestly, she never really does.

Santana rushes out the bedroom door, ignoring a stunned Burt Hummel as she passes him in the hallway. With any luck, he'll blab to Finn's mum that her son had a girl in his room; with all the pregnancy scares that have been going around lately, the woman will have his hide.

…

Santana brings her hands down hard on the steering wheel, just narrowly missing the horn and waking up all the neighbours. She's parked outside her house, her eyes are wet – even though she'll never admit it – and she can't get her fucking shoulders to stop shaking; she's _not_ crying and she's not going to start crying either. She tries to tell herself that she's acting like an idiot and that only itty bitty school girls with melodramatic views of the world like Rachael Berry behave this way. No matter how many times she repeats this, though, she can't get the sinking feeling out of her stomach or the sting from her eyes.

All because of Finn fucking Hudson.

It's stupid – _so, so stupid_ – and she's dealt with a lot worse but this feeling that he's given her is new. Santana's felt like crap before, she's felt hollow and numb, she's even felt like she was dying but she has never felt so _dirty_ until now.

She's never felt like a whore before.

"Stupid. Stupid. Stupid." She accentuates each word with a smack against the steering wheel. A part of her foolishly wants the horn to go off, just to wake everybody up and annoy the crap out of them.

She glances in the direction of her house and holds her breath, hoping that there won't be a car in the drive way. She's out of luck – her stepfather's silver Volvo is peaking out of the garage whilst her mother's old Volkswagen Beetle is no-where to be seen (it still amazes her that her mother never questions the fact that Garry has such and expensive car whilst they all struggle to make ends meet; idiot). The disappointment of this news is crushing and Santana lets out a shaky breath.

When she left Kurt's, she was filled with rage and a sense of, 'What the hell. What more can that bastard do to me?', so much so that, foolishly, she jumped into her car and headed right home. Now her senses have caught up with her and she sees what a disastrous idea that was. It would have been bad enough if she had come home right after school but to come home after keeping Garry _waiting_ like this?

He really is going to kill her this time.

Santana thinks about driving away, maybe hiding out under a bridge like that troll from the _Three Billy Goats Gruff_ (not that she's planning to actually eat any goats; _ew_). She even has her key turning in the ignition when she sees the light in the living room turn on. She closes her eyes, resigned, when she sees Garry gazing at her through the window. He doesn't look happy.

"Great. That's just great," she mutters, pulling her key out and stepping out of the car – she knows her stepfather will just come and _drag_ her out if she doesn't and the last thing she needs right now is that kind of humiliation. "I always knew you had a special place in your heart for me, God." This is why she stopped going to church. Well, this and the fact that her grandfather used to always say she would burn in hell, each and every time she made one little mistake. Not believing in God seemed like the best way to get rid of the nightmares of fiery dungeons and the devil on a pogo stick (don't ask).

She thinks she hears a noise off in the distance but when she looks around there's nothing there so she ignores it; probably just the next door neighbour's cat.

At first, she walks slowly towards the door, dragging her feet, before she realizes that she's really just putting of the inevitable and making her step-father even angrier whilst doing so. Because of this, Santana picks up the pace, not quite rushing but not dawdling either. Even so, she reaches the door in record time, raises her hand towards the doorway . . . and pauses. For the second time that night, she's too afraid to open a fucking door.

How pathetic.

Luckily for her, or not so luckily really, Garry does it for her and the door swings open with a creek. For a moment, all she can do is stare at him, unable to connect herself with the danger at hand. His hair's wet, making it obvious that he's just had shower – good, he won't smell so much then – and his shirt's rumpled. Other than that, he's just plain old glaring Garry.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demands, reaching out a hand and dragging her inside. She tries not to recoil at the feeling of his fingers, wrapped around her bare arm.

Santana's glares at him, defiantly, and ignores the overwhelming despair that sinks in the moment he closes the door behind them, cutting off the outside world. There's no longer any chance of escape. "I was with Finn." When he continues to just stare at her, she continues, "You know, Finn? The football guy? Tall, face like dork? You know the one. You saw him at parent teacher night." Inwardly, she curses her callous attitude, knowing that it's just going to piss Garry off even more. But she has a hell of a mouth on her and it's never been accustomed to just shutting up.

His eyes narrow suspiciously."Did you have sex with him? Are you having sex with other guys?"

The Cheerio flushes, whether from anger or humiliation she's not quite sure, and glares back at him in turn. "Why would you care?"

He shakes his head and sneers. "I always knew you were a good for nothing whore."

It's not the first time he's called her this; it is, however, the first time the words truly hold any bite for her. Santana spies the nearly empty bottle of vodka in his right hand and wants to throw it at his face. She truly, deeply just wants to smash it on the ground, grab a piece and slice his face open. Her friends would be shocked by how violent her thoughts can actually be but she's not, this isn't the first time she's wanted to cause him pain. "You're drunk." Her tone is layered with disgust that she can't keep hidden and Garry's face reddens furiously.

"Don't you talk to me like that!" he bellows. "You need to treat me with respect! _I_ am your _father."_

She shakes her head. "You have no idea how glad I am that that's not true."

The punch, however sudden, is not unexpected, and Santana bites back a yelp. Blood swells in her mouth and she hopes to God he hasn't chipped any of her good teeth. The thought nearly makes her laugh and she closes her eyes momentarily – trust Santana Lopez to think about her looks at a time like this!

He grabs her jaw in his hands and pulls her face towards his, nails digging into her skin. "You don't fuck other guys, do you hear me?" Garry's breath is hot on her face and that, plus the blood, is enough to make her dizzy. More enraged than usual, she answers with a massive, chocking spit. The scarlet coloured liquid lands on his cheek, tracing a line down slowly.

"Fuck . . .you," she gasps, barely loud enough for him to hear but still loud enough.

Her fool-hardy bravado is lost the moment she sees the burning hatred in his eyes.

. . .

For the third time that night – though, she guesses it's really morning now – Santana finds herself on the doorstep of someone that she really doesn't want to be – Puck's to be exact, even though she'd rather walk over hot coal than go to him for sanctuary. Right now this fact, surprisingly, doesn't really bother her. She's numb to it. All her mind and body can register right now is the pain, the overwhelming pain.

Her jaw is aching from the first punch, along with a massive black eye that's going to be a killer to hide at school, and there's a painful throbbing between her legs that won't go away; she does her best to ignore it, like always. All this is usual, though, she's accustomed to it. What she isn't used to is the agonizing pain on her back, that clenches and spasms to excruciating proportions every time she moves. Santana can feel the blood seeping through the black jumper she had thrown on in a rush to get out of the house the moment Garry passed out and the effect is nauseating. The blood-loss is also making her feel light-headed and she rests a hand against the wall of the Puckerman's house, looking for some kind of support. Emotionally, she finds none.

She hates herself for coming here, hates herself even more for not turning around and disappearing. She should, really, because she knows Puck can't help her, that he doesn't have the ability to give her the kind of help that she really needs – to be honest, Santana's not even sure if she knows what that is – and she wouldn't want it even if he could give it to her.

She's not some damsel in distress.

So then why is she here?

A chirp from inside her jumper interrupts her line of thought and Santana glances down distantly just in time to see Ballad/Satan Jr. poke his little yellow head out. She grabbed him on the way out of the bedroom, not trusting her stepfather to leave the poor little guy alone once he woke up again and not knowing how she would ever explain it to Brittany if her precious duckie got smooshed.

Taking a breath, Santana presses a finger to the duck's head, caressing the yellow feathers there. It's stupid but the duck kind of makes her feel like Brittany's here and, unfortunately, makes her wish even more that she really was. Which is even more stupid because the last thing the Latina wants is for her best friend to see her like this, actually she doesn't want anyone to see her like this but it doesn't look like she's going to have much of a choice.

Reaching up, and wincing as the skin along her back pulls and contorts, Santana rings the doorbell, hoping that at least someone will still be up. This is a pretty slim hope though since, from her estimation, it's probably about one in the morning.

"Quinn, get the door!" someone she recognises to be Puck shouts, sounding distinctly awake. She's not sure whether she's grateful for this fact or not.

"You get the door, you lazy glob!" Quinn responds and Santana wonders whether this is a regular occurrence. She immediately feels sorry for Mrs. P for having to put up with them, even though Puck's mum has made it very clear that she doesn't particularly like Santana. This is mostly because she used to be convinced that if anyone was going to be the one to tempt her son into a life of lustful sin it would be the hot little Latina from down the road who made a habit of wearing short skirts. She wonders what Mrs. P's reaction must have been when she found out that Puck had actually knocked up the celibate church girl rather than the school slut. She imagines it must have been pretty funny.

There's a groan from inside and the sound of a chair being pushed out, accompanied by sluggish footsteps, before the door is slowly pulled open. "Look, dude, haven't you ever heard of sleeping during the night . . ." he trails off the moment he catches sight of her, eyes widening and mouth falling open.

"I could say the same to you, Puck," she retorts, trying to look her best picture of sassy defiance. The effect is somewhat ruined, she knows, by the black eye and bloody lip. The fact that she feels like she's about to pass out isn't helping matters either.

"Santana?" Puck questions, still not quite believing his eyes.

"_Santana_?" a voice echoes from inside, sounding distinctly confused and a few moments later Quinn joins them at the door. Immediately, the Latina wishes she hadn't.

"Oh my god," the blonde gasps at the sight of her, cupping a hand over her mouth in dismay and widening her eyes. In any other situation, Santana would have laughed at how ridiculous she looks but instead she feels a rush of humiliation for letting them see her like this.

Now that she's here, she doesn't know exactly what she's supposed to do. She thinks that the most sensible thing to say would be to ask for a first aid kit or something, or at the very least to be let in, but she can't quite get the words out. The brunette feels drained, of everything, and at the moment the only thing keeping her awake is the enormous amount of pain – though she thinks that might actually be pushing her more towards passing out in the long run – so she's not exactly thinking straight. This, more than anything else, is probably why she allows herself to collapse into a startled Puck's arms.

…

**A/N: So, what did you think? I know I made Finn into a bit of jerk but I do actually like the guy and he will get a chance to make up for it later. **

**You know, I'm really glad neither of my parents go on fanfiction because I'm fairly certain I swear more in these stories than I ever have in my life; which is slightly scary. LOL.**


	3. Make It Go Away

_**A/N: Sorry, for the long update! Also, I made a mistake before, this is actually set just before Funk (for some reason I keep getting that episode and Theatricality mixed up). I hope you enjoy the chapter and thanks a bunch for all the reviews!**_

_**Heads up, this is a long chapter (kind of to make up for the late updating).**_

_**. . .**_

_Several Hours Previously . .  
_

"_. . . Ooh, it's hard on the man,_

_Now his part is over . . ."_

_This Woman's Work by Kate Bush_

_._

Burt Hummel has seen a lot of weird things in his time, most of them to do with Kurt – that time stumbling upon him and that blonde girl making out notwithstanding – so he really should be used to them by now. The problem is, he's grown used to strange things happening that involve his son, not ones that involve somebody's else's; so he was unprepared.

Frowning slightly as a Latina girl in a cheerleader's outfit pushes past him, he turns back to watch as she disappears down the hallway towards the door, face a terrifying mask of fury. It reminds him of the time when his wife had been pregnant with Kurt and he got strawberry flavoured ice-cream instead of chocolate flavoured; the man almost shudders at the thought.

The front door slams shut, signalling the girl's exit, and Burt continues on his way towards Finn's room, intent on finding out just what is going on. "Am I seeing things, or did a young attractive girl who I don't know just storm out of your room?" he asks, entering the bedroom. This is an odd occurrence as the only girls who have ever come over the Hummel House are Mercedes and, once, Quinn . . . and neither of them were very angry at the time, nor had they really spoken to Finn.

The footballer sighs and slumps down onto his bed, looking for all the world rather lost and confused. "You're not seeing things. That was Santana."

"Oh." This really doesn't help Burt out much since he has no idea who Santana is. He remembers hearing Kurt talk about a dark haired girl in Glee who he found to be a total bitch but the name he used for her was Satan so it probably isn't the same one. "What did she want?"

Finn's brow furrows in further confusion and he glances at Burt, deliberating. "I think she wanted to sleep with me," he states hesitantly, clearly not all too sure about the fact.

"Oh," he breathes slightly more shocked, wondering whether this is one of those things he's going to have to tell Carol about. He doesn't particularly want to, since he does happen to remember what it's like to be a teenage boy, and wonders whether he can just plead complete ignorance to the matter. "How long have you two been going out?"

Finn frowns in thought. "That's the thing. We're not. Well, I mean, I went out with her and Brittany once, for an hour, I think, but I had to wait out in the car for most of that."

He's making no sense. Burt sighs. "So you're not dating?"

The boy makes a face. "That's another thing: Santana doesn't really . . . _date_. Well, she went out with Puck for a bit but then she broke up with him because of his credit score."

_OK, this is making even less sense now._ _Who's Puck_? He places his hands in his pockets and frowns, deep in thought. "But she wanted to sleep with you?"

"Yeah." Finn nods his head. "I think. She kind of said the same kind of stuff last time and she wanted to sleep with me then."

Burt nods along understandingly until Finn's words actually catch up to him, at which point his eyes widen. "'_Last time'_?"

The sixteen-year-old looks suddenly guilty and glances down, avoiding the man's gaze. "Yeah."

"Did you two . . ." This is not a conversation he really wants to have with his girlfriend's kid; why couldn't they just have stuck with football?

"Yeah."

Burt lets out a breath. Yep, they're having this conversation then. "I see. I hope you two were careful."

Finn blushes furiously. "Oh, yeah, we were. I mean, after what happened with Quinn I don't think I'll ever forget protection. Sir."

"Good to hear."

"Yeah. It kind of didn't mean anything, though, not in the way I thought it would, at least. It wasn't . . . special." He pauses. "It was a mistake."

Burt nods, trying to look his best picture of understanding, but can't help glancing back towards the door, confused. "Did she storm off that time, too?"

"No." Finn frowns. "I wasn't really expecting that. She came over here looking for Kurt, which is weird because I don't think the two have shared a nice conversation since elementary, but I didn't really ask. Then she said she needed a place to stay."

"So you offered her your room?" Good to know the boy's chivalrous, that'll be something he can work in, in his favour, if he ever has to tell Carol about this.

"No, actually, she just kind of barged in; I didn't really get a chance."

_Or not._

"What happened next?" He hates to admit, but he's kind of interested now. There hasn't been this much excitement in his life since he won those tickets to last season's football game.

"Well, she stole my bed and mentioned something about the 40-year-old virgin and sleeping with me; it was kind of confusing. Well, I mean, I turned her down because of how it felt last time and I'm still trying to win back Rachael, you know." He pauses, frown deepening, apparently ignoring the fact that Burt has no idea who Rachael is. "And then she got really angry with me and left. I mean, I think she got angry. It's kind of hard to tell with girls, especially her – she sort of always looks angry."

OK, Burt's starting to feel grateful for the fact that Kurt is otherwise inclined and therefore does not have any of these girl troubles. "Do you think maybe you could have hurt her feelings when you were . . . 'turning her down'?"

Finn looks contemplative for a second but then shakes his head decidedly. "Not possible. I don't think someone like her gets hurt feelings. I mean, Quinn said she cried once but that was over spray tanning privileges and Quinn said she was just being a drama queen for no reason, not because she was actually upset or anything. Then there was that time she laughed when that freshman was been duct-taped to the school flag-pole. . . and he was her _cousin_. Plus, I think she might have told Jacob Ben Israel about Quinn being pregnant."

_OK, I didn't get any of that._ Burt frowns, there seems to be a lot of that going on, before taking a step forward and sitting on the bed beside Finn. He doesn't really know this Santana and, from what he's heard, she doesn't sound like a very nice person either but he knows people, more specifically he knows girls and because of that he knows Finn is wrong. "Regardless of how much of a . . ." He searches for an appropriate word to describe the Latina, one that isn't too harsh, but fails. "Bitch . . . she might seem, that doesn't mean you didn't hurt her. Everyone has feelings. Every _girl_ has feelings. Including this one."

"No. Not this girl." At Burt's doubtful look he continues, "No, seriously; Puck said she was a robot or something three years ago. A _killer_ robot."

The father sighs and wonders about how best to continue, whilst also trying to work out whether Finn actually believes his own words. After all, a _robot_? It sounds like something out of a science fiction novel. "OK, let's try a different approach. Forget about the whole 'possibly hurting her' thing, did you ever wonder why she needed a place to stay so bad? I mean, from what I've gathered you guys don't really like each other and even though it was Kurt who she came to see, I can already gather that they're relationship is even worse, so she must have been pretty desperate."

The sixteen-year-old widens his eyes in realization and turns to look at him. "You're right. Wow. I didn't even think of that." He frowns, looking thoughtful, before squinting his eyes as though that will somehow help him along in his thought process. "I wonder what happened."

Burt shrugs his shoulders; how should he know? Until about five minutes ago he didn't even know who this Santana girl was. "One way to find out."

…

"_Pray God you can cope._

_I stand outside this woman's work,_

_This woman's world . . ."_

_This Woman's Work by Kate Bush_

_Present Time . . ._

For Quinn Fabray, the night was a normal night just like any other. Mrs. Puckerman had left the house at six to go to work and she and Puck were left behind to wash the dishes, look after Puck's little sister Liv, and sit back on the couch to relax. Liv went to bed several hours ago but the blonde had decided to stay up and work on her English Essay, which she is horribly behind on, and Puck opted to stay with her for 'moral support'. Of course, his take on moral support came in the form of chilling around and playing video games all night; the noise coming from the T.V. was enough to make Quinn want to go Bloody Marry on his behind.

Needless to say, it was a normal night; which is why Quinn is so shocked when a bruised and bloodied Santana Lopez rocks up on her – well, technically, _Puck's_ – doorstep. She's even more stunned when the Latina folds into the footballer's arms, unconscious, and the both of them are left gaping at her.

"Oh my God," Quinn repeats. What does she do? What do _they_ do? Call an ambulance? Call Brittany? Call _somebody_? She swallows, trying to reign in her erratic thoughts, and searches for the most sensible solution. "Come on, let's get her on the couch," she orders softly, watching dumbly as Puck scoops Santana up into his arms. She bends like a ragdoll, head hanging to the side and lips slightly parted, and the blonde girl has to look away to keep from chocking.

This isn't happening.

It's one thing to know about what goes on in Santana's home, it's another to have the evidence shoved up right in your face. Even looking away, she can't get the image of the of Santana's bloodied face out of her mind and squeezing her eyes shut doesn't help much either.

This is unreal.

Numbly, Quinn makes her way into the lounge room, Puck following dutifully behind her. She stops in front of the fraying sofa and watches, face pale, as he sets Santana gently down onto the cushions. She feels Beth kick and places a hand absentmindedly to her stomach as Puck steps hesitantly back from the couch, almost as if he's afraid of suffocating the brunette by being too close. It's stupid, but Quinn wonders whether baby's can pick up on the negative energy in a room whilst still being in the womb and hopes that her daughter hasn't been permanently scarred for life by this traumatic scene in front of them. She knows it's unlikely but keeps the hand protectively over her stomach just in case.

"What do we do now?" Puck asks after a pause, eyes still wide.

"Um . . . first aid kit?" She wanted to sound commanding but it comes out more like a question. God, she's not good at this. Where's Mr. Shu when you need him? He'd probably know what to do. Although, knowing him, he'd likely just get them all together to sing a song.

"Right." He's off in a flash, leaving Quinn behind all alone with Santana.

Swallowing, the blonde crouches down in front of the other girl, minding her baby bump. The damage is obvious. A huge, dark circle is beginning to form, surrounding the Latina's right eye, and one lip is split and puffy. The blood dripping slowly down from the corner of her mouth makes Quinn nauseas and she has to struggle not to throw up. It's sick.

She wonders how anyone could do this to another human being, even more urgently she asks how they could do it repeatedly. Reaching out a cautious hand, she latches onto Santana's limp one, giving it a comforting squeeze. It's the only thing she can do right now really, and she has to do _something_.

Puck's back in record time, first aid kit in hand, and breathing heavily. It's obvious he's been running. "Where do you think we should start?"

"I don't know . . . maybe her eye?" she responds doubtfully. "We'll probably need an ice-pack for that, though."

The father of her child nods but before he can take off to go fetch that as well, their attention is captured by a soft quack arising from Santana's chest. Quinn's eyes widen and Puck raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"Did her boobs just . . .quack?" he asks, receiving a glare from the blonde.

"_No_." To prove her point she reaches over and pulls down the top part of Santana's black jumper to reveal a tiny yellow head, looking up at them with curiosity. It's the duck Brittany gave the head Cheerio for her birthday and for a moment the only thing the both of them can do is stare at it – what the hell is a duckling doing in Santana's shirt?

"Uh . . ." is all Puck can manage and Quinn rolls her eyes and scoops up the little duckling in her hands. It's at this moment that she feels something wet on her skin and she looks down, recoiling and nearly dropping the duck when she sees. There's a thin layer of blood coating her hand and a couple of the duck's once yellow feathers. She stares at it for a moment before looking at back at the jumper. It's so dark in colour that you wouldn't be able to tell if there was any blood on it or not.

"Puck . . ." she starts warningly because she's dangerously close to freaking out at the moment, "take the duck."

He nods wordlessly and reaches across to pick up Balls or whatever his name is. Quinn purses her lips and extends a hand out towards Santana's jumper. She doesn't want to risk hurting the brunette by doing so but she has to get it off. Swallowing determinedly, and muttering a silent prayer, she hooks the bottom of the jumper in her hands and carefully pulls it up. It's a slow process, especially when it comes to un-looping the brunette's arms from the sleeves, but they're almost there when Santana lets out a sudden moan of pain. Quinn and Puck freeze simultaneously and glance across at Santana's face. Her mouth and brow are clenched in obvious agony and it's clear that she's now awake.

"Sorry," the blonde mutters apologetically before bringing the jumper off with one last flourish. The brunette gasps and contorts in pain and Quinn winces.

"Fuck, Q, what the hell are you doing?" Santana gets out, breathing heavily as her eyes finally open. "If you wanted to cop a feel all you had to do was ask."

The pregnant teen smiles thinly, somewhat comforted by the other girl's inappropriate humour. "Don't swear," she reprimands automatically, running a hand along Santana's brown shirt, searching for the source of the blood. The Latina shrinks away from her touch. "Do you think you can turn over?"

Santana's eyes darken considerably. "Fuck that."

Immediately, Quinn can recognise that she's hiding something. The Santana Lopez she knows would have just gone, 'of course,' and turned over without a second thought, regardless of the amount of pain it would cause. But this one is gazing at her with a fearful, stubborn glint in her eyes that's just daring the blonde to ask again. "Please?" All she gets is a baleful stare and an uncomfortable cough from Puck in the background. Quinn's eyes harden. "Look, I know you don't want to, for whatever reason. But you came here for help, or at least, that's what I can assume unless you just like paying home visits at one in the morning." She hears a stifled snicker from Puck and doesn't want to think about where his mind has wandered to – no doubt thinking about one of Santana's customary booty calls; _so immature_. "Now, you're bleeding, I know that much but I don't know where, and if I'm going to help you then I'm going to have to find out. So turn onto your frickin' stomach and let me take a look, OK? Or, _I swear_, I'm going to get Puck to take you to a hospital and let them deal with you." She knows the words are harsh and she hates herself for it but Quinn Fabray wasn't known as Head Bitch once upon a time for nothing and she really can't see any other way of getting Santana to work with her on this. She knows from experience that the Latina won't respond to concern and gentle prodding but a harsh tongue on the other hand . . .

For what seems like eons, Santana just glares at her, eyes burning with hatred that Quinn has a feeling isn't actually directed at her. Nonetheless, for a second she feels herself almost shrink back before remembering who actually used to be in charge of their little trio group and that Santana used to follow _her_. There's no way she's backing down.

Finally, the brunette lets out a huff and takes off her shirt, wincing in the process. For once, Puck doesn't comment on the view and they both wait patiently for her to turn over. Now that the shirt is off, the blood's horribly obvious, congealing on her left shoulder and running down the front of her chest into her black bra. Quinn holds her breath as Santana painfully turns over onto her stomach, forcing the blonde and Puck to be confronted by something that makes the former Cheerio want to throw up all over again.

Puck swears; Quinn, too shocked, can't bring herself to tell him off. Blood is leaking steadily from a wound on the Latina's right shoulder where it looks like someone has taken a knife to her skin and gauged out two, messy shapes. Amongst the scarlet liquid, the blonde can't tell exactly what the shapes are supposed to be and for that much she is glad.

It looks painful.

"Well? Are you gonna help or what?" Santana snaps, noticing their vacant stares. "Or are you just gonna stand there and stare at me like a couple of fucking gaping gold fish out of water?"

Shaken, Quinn reaches for a small wash cloth that Puck brought along with the first aid kit and presses it against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. Santana cringes and gasps, causing the blonde to bite her lip guiltily but she doesn't stop. God, this is probably going to need sutures. "S, you need a doctor," she announces, trying to keep her voice steady and calm. _I'm Quinn Fabray; I'm Quinn Fabray; Quinn Fabray does not panic. _

"No I don't. I'm _fine_," she snaps again, glaring daggers at the both of them. It's such a blatant lie that Quinn doesn't even bother to call her on it. "And don't even think about suggesting it again."

"But-"

"Fuck, Q, doctors ask questions, OK? Questions that I don't exactly want to answer," Santana cuts her off and the blonde opens her mouth to protest but Puck stops her, grabbing her arm and shaking his head. She doesn't exactly get it but she supposes that he has known about this longer than she has and probably knows how best to handle it. She hopes.

"Fine," the blonde bites off. _I guess. _To tell the truth, though, she's worried as hell.

Sighing, Quinn gently starts to clean the blood off Santana's shoulders. She knows she should probably tend to the wound first, which is still gushing a muddy red liquid, but she doesn't know quite what to do with it. She's never even taken first aid before and while she's swapped the wash cloth for Santana's jumper (it's not like it can get even more ruined), balled up under one hand against the indentations to try and stop the bleeding, her other hand using the wash cloth to wipe dirt and blood from the Latina's tan skin, she doesn't think she's really helping. Not really.

"Jesus, Santana, what happened to the Pepper Spray I got you?" Puck asks stunned while Quinn glances at him in confusion.

"Brittany blew it up," is the brunette's simple reply and the other two teens exchange a bewildered look, not really knowing what to make of that.

"Something needs to be done about that girl," is all Puck mutters, more to himself than anyone else. He skilfully ignores the threatening scowl Santana sends his way.

The blonde's about to suggest a doctor one more time when Puck's phone goes off and the two girls turn to glare at him. He's got a sheepish look on his face, similar to one of Finn's customary expressions, and answers his cell phone, the duckling in his hand giving off a little delighted quack. "_Yeah_?" His eyebrows go into his nonexistent hairline when he hears who it is on the other end. _"I'm cool. Yeah, just playing Road Rage, you know."_ Both Quinn and Santana roll their eyes, each remembering the many times they have heard this exact line from Puck when _they've_ called him up and unable to help wondering what he was really doing at the time; probably screwing some girl, Quinn thinks bitterly as the knowledge pulls at her heartstrings. She's not in love with Puck, or at least she hopes she's not, but she's not exactly immune to him either. He's the father of their child and that's got to count for something . . . right?

She shakes her head to clear her thoughts and tunes back into the conversation, of which she's missed a fair amount.

"_Yeah, she's here_," Puck says awkwardly, glancing unconsciously at Santana; it's clear that he's trying to be discreet . . . and failing miserably at it too. "_You're _where_? . . . .That's not a good thing, dude . . . Nah, things are looking kind of bad on this front." _Another glance at Santana who he looks at long enough to catch a glare before quickly turning away, instead focusing on Quinn, who's not looking too impressed either. "_Hold on a sec_." He takes the phone away from his ear and pauses. "I'll be right back – I'm just gonna take this," he says to them, setting the duckling down on the ground where it promptly wonders off in contented silence.

He's about to walk away, too, but Santana stops him, looking highly suspicious. "Who are you talking to?" she demands and Quinn's amazed by the sense of authority she can command whilst lying beaten on a couch. If you weren't looking at her, you could almost imagine that she's perfectly fine, completely normal. But the blonde _is_ looking at her and she doesn't like what she sees.

For a moment, all Puck seems able to do is stare at them like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, mouth gaping. After a few seconds though, he manages to gather his wits and reply. "Dentist," he says, trying to appear as innocent as possible before disappearing in a flash out the lounge room door.

The two girls watch him go with raised eyebrows.

"He's talking about me, isn't he?" Santana guesses dully, looking more irritated than anything. Quinn knows she must be pretty unsettled by the idea, though, and wonders how many other times the cheerleader has appeared 'more irritated than anything' when there was really something more sinister going on beneath. The thought is far from comforting.

"I'd bet good money on it," she answers wryly, trying to keep the atmosphere light-hearted.

They're silent for a time, Quinn working diligently on trying to fix Santana up and the brunette gazing listlessly at the opposite wall. She doesn't look comfortable but neither is the blonde who's finding it increasingly hard not to fall on top of the other girl with her baby bump weighing her down. _Thanks a lot, Beth. _She's receives only a kick in response, fuelling her discomfort.

"Q . . .?" Santana speaks up after a pause. She's still looking at that damn wall and Quinn wonders what's so interesting about it.

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell anyone about this, OK?"For the first time since arriving that night, the Latina actually sounds vulnerable, if only slightly, and Quinn swallows. God, she does not want to talk about this.

"I . . ." she starts, finds herself unable to continue.

"_Promise_."

"I don't know if I can do that, San," she admits, resigned. She thinks about all the people that should know about this – the police, for one – and doesn't see herself able to keep it from them. This is serious.

"Quinn, I need you to promise," Santana persists, looking at her now. It's Quinn's turn to look away now, avoiding her gaze. "I _need_ you to."

_Really? Is it really? How can it be?_

She opens her mouth to make a response when Puck comes back in. _Thank the Lord_.

"Hey, Quinn, can I talk to you for a sec?" he asks, ignoring the dagger eyes that the Head Cheerio sends him.

The blonde glances nervously at the still bleeding wound on her friend's back before turning back to Puck. "Yeah," she lets out, rising from her position on the floor and heading towards him. It's not like she can actually stay behind to finish this conversation – that would be suicide.

She feels Santana's eyes on her the whole way out, glaring a whole in her backside. It's not at all pleasant.

…

" _. . . Give me these moments back. _

_Give them back to me. _

_Give me that little kiss. _

_Give me your hand . . ."_

_This Woman's Work by Kate Bush_

…

"What is it?" she asks as soon as they're out of hearing range.

"Finn called."

"_Finn_?" OK, clearly something's in the air tonight. Since when does Finn call Puck's house again?

"Shh," he hisses, glances back in the direction of the lounge room. "Not too loud or she'll hear you."

Now Quinn's even more confused which would certainly be a change for the night. "What's going on?"

"Finn's over at Santana's house right now."

"_What_?"

"Shh!"

The blonde forcefully lowers her voice and leans in a little closer. "What is he _doing_ over there?" she hisses, trying to think of any of the possible reasonings the football player could have for being over at _that_ Cheerio's house. She can't think of any.

"Apparently he was looking for her to apologise for something," he explained simply, earning an incredulous look from Quinn.

"For _what_?" It isn't that she can't believe that Finn has done something that is in desperate need of an apology on his part but rather that she can't seem to grasp the idea that he _knows_ he's done something wrong. It's almost unheard of. She can still remember the time he said she looked like his grandmother – who was _so_ ugly – back in fourth grade and how he spent the rest of the week wondering why she was ignoring him. The guy's just totally clueless. Lovable but clueless.

Puck shrugs his shoulders carelessly. "Didn't say. But when I told him Santana was here he said he was going to come over."

Quinn's eyes widen in horror. "Please tell me you said he can't." Her only response is a guilty look and she groans. "Santana's going to _freak_."

He looks kind of sheepish and scratches the back of his head self-consciously. "Yeah. I didn't really think of that at the time. Though, I am now. _Fuck_."

Again, she doesn't bother to reprimand him for the language. The blonde shakes her head and holds up her hands as a sign that she's over it. "Whatever. It doesn't matter. What we need to do right now is figure out how to get Santana to see a doctor."

Puck smiles grimly. "Not gonna happen. She'll never agree to it."

"Then I'll _drag_ her to one," Quinn growls. She can't get the image of those marks carved into the other girl's flesh out of her mind and she knows, just _knows_, that something serious has to be done about it. She needs to put a stop to this. "And better yet the police station."

"Quinn," Puck starts in a warning tone but she's not listening.

"Puck, this is serious!" she says in a low voice, ever conscious of Santana in the other room. "He is going to _kill _her. It already looks like he's halfway there. We can't just let this go on – the bastard needs to be behind bars!"

Her not-boyfriend moves a little closer to her, also lowering his voice. "It's not what Santana wants."

"You think I _care_ about what she wants right now?" she demands in disbelief. "I'm thinking about what's best for her."

"Well you _should_ care about what she wants!" he retorts, still not loud enough to be overheard but there's real anger in his eyes that makes her pause, startled. "This whole thing is the result of that mother fucker going against what she wants, again and again! You do that now and you're no better than he is, not to her."

Quinn feels like she's been slapped in the face and she takes a step back, a mixture of stunned and hurt. "You'd really compare me to him?" she asks, hating the way her voice shakes. He hates her, he really hates her . . .

"Oh, come on, Quinn; you know I didn't mean it like that," he says, though the annoyance in his tone doesn't really help his case.

The blonde lets out a trembling breath and looks away, avoiding his gaze. "Regardless of what you meant I still think we need to do something about this. I know you think it'll hurt her but,-"

Puck interrupts. "It'll kill her."

And finally Quinn snaps. "She'll get over it!" she growls hatefully; angry at Puck, angry at Santana's step-father, angry at Santana for putting her in this situation in the first place and angry at herself for allowing this to ever happen to a girl she once considered her best friend. She takes a breath, trying to calm herself and gazes imploringly at Puck. "At least she'll still be alive. It won't kill her, Puck, not really. But we leave things like this and she might just . . ." She can't bring herself to say it, the thought of Santana dead too much for her to take at the moment.

"And what if the cops don't do anything?" he demands and, unbeknown to Quinn, he's remembering the days of his childhood before his dad finally left, the days when he used to come home drunk and beat the shit out of his mum. The cops never did a thing then either, why should they do something now? "We'll be back to square one, only worse."

Quinn looks down, understanding his point. She can't believe it, though. She can't believe that this is just how things have to be. There has to be another way. She lets out a sigh and Puck's face softens.

"She _needs_ to know that this is a place she can come to when she needs help," he continues. "She'll never come here again if she thinks we're going to spill the beans."

"She's probably never going to come here again anyway," Quinn mutters bitterly but concedes to the fact that, on this, she has lost. It's not a good feeling that settles over at the knowledge of this. Somehow, she feels like she's let Santana down in some way even though, according to Puck, this is what she wants. _But_, Quinn thinks, _you don't let a kid play with matches just because they _want_ to_. "Alright," she says finally, reluctantly. "I give. But I still think we need a doctor. I'm worried about that wound and I think it needs sutures."

Puck frowns in agreement and the two of them mull over their dilemma for a moment. They both know they can't very well shove Santana into Puck's car and drive her to the hospital, no matter how appealing that might sound.

"Hey, what about your mum?" Quinn suggests suddenly. "She's a nurse, right? We could call her up and get her to come home."

The sixteen-year-old boy grimaces. "Not a good idea. My mum and Santana hate each other. I think San might just jump out the window if Ma tried to take a look at her."

"Oh."

"Yeah." There's another pause, this time broken by Puck. "Hey, isn't one of Berry's dads like a doctor or something? And they live right down the road."

Quinn's eyes widen in relief, "God, you're a genius!" and, impulsively, she pulls Puck's face towards her for a kiss. It's quick and short and kind of wonderful, and when she releases him, she's blushing in embarrassment, avoiding his gaze. Puck just looks confused, not sure where that came from or how to feel about it. It's the first time she's acted in such a way since the night they slept together and the thought makes her flush even harder. She hates that he can do this to her. She hates that she wants him. She shouldn't, _can't_. _Stupid hormones_. "Um, do you have Rachael's number?" she asks after a moment, still avoiding his gaze.

"Uh, yeah, back from that time we dated," he says, pulling out his phone from his back pocket. Inexplicably, Quinn's heart plummets and she looks down at her feet; right, Puck dated Rachael, along with every other girl at McKinley.

She waits patiently as he dials Berry's number before handing the phone over to her. She accepts it without a word and holds it up to her ear, still waiting. Rachael picks up after the first ring.

"_Hello, this is Rachael Berry, soon to be renowned Broadway Star, speaking, who is thi_s?"

Quinn nearly gags at the intro. "This is Quinn."

"_Fabray?"_

She scowls, irritated. "How many other Quinn's do you know?" She doesn't wait for an answer and continues. "Look, one of your dads is a doctor, right?"

"Right. And a great one too if I do say so myself."

"Right . . .look, is he home?"

"No, he and Daddy are out on a date. Why?"

Quinn closes her eyes, filling the beginnings of defeat settling over her. Now what is she supposed to do? "Never mind."

"Is someone hurt?" Rachael demands, sounding concerned, and the blonde knows that her melodramatic mind is just cooking up some soap opera worthy story to go with this call. The sad thing is: that nothing she'd come up with would be even close to summing up how horrible the real situation is.

"No. Everything's fine. Sorry to bother you," she sighs before hanging up.

She looks up at Puck, eyes dull, before, unbelievably, bursting into tears. She blames it on the damn baby hormones because nothing else can explain why her shoulders are suddenly shaking horribly and there are horrible water marks running down her face. She feels terrible, overwhelmed really, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to do, how she's supposed to help her friend. She has enough on her plate at the moment what with the baby and her feelings for Puck and she doesn't need this too. But thinking this only makes Quinn feel worse, guilty and ashamed at wishing Santana had never shown up on Puck's doorstep, and she raises her hands to her face, trying to hide.

"I'm sorry," she gasps, not really sure what she's apologising for. The fact that she's crying right now when she really should be figuring out what to do next? That she's a terrible friend who would like nothing better than to have Santana disappear from their lives? She sobs harder at the thought and, after a hesitant pause, Puck reaches forward and pulls her into a hug, enveloping her in his big strong arms.

"Hey, it's OK," he sooths, smoothing back her hair and resting his chin on her forehead. She had no idea that Noah Puckerman could be so comforting but she really doesn't care right now and burries her face in his shoulder. Her hands bunch into fists around his shirt, holding on tight, and she sobs brokenly. It's the first time she's cried since Finn broke up with her – a silent resolution on her part – and it feels somehow a relief to let everything out, even if she's not sure what exactly she's supposed to be crying about. _Everything_, her mind tells her and she closes her eyes, letting out another sob. Another part of her says that she doesn't deserve to be crying, not with Santana in the other room in the state she is. Clearly, Quinn has it better. This thought only makes the tears come harder, fuelling her earlier shame. "Look, whatever Berry did, I'm sure she didn't mean it," Puck jokes in her ear and, surprisingly, the blonde lets out a little choking laugh. With that laugh, she feels herself finally starting to calm down.

"Stupid baby hormones," she mumbles embarrassedly into Puck's shirt, her voice slightly muffled. She pulls back from him after a pause and wipes her eyes, trying to hide what has just happened even though such a thing is impossible.

"You OK?" he asks, sounding uncharacteristically concerned.

She nods wordlessly. "Sorry I cried all over you."

He waves the comment away. "Nah, it's cool. Just as long as I get a little reward later on, if you know what I mean?" Puck waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Quinn lets out a giggle, knowing that he's not really serious.

"We should, you know, probably go back in now," she says a little nervously, gesturing towards the lounge room. She thinks that she should somehow feel closer to him after her little breakdown but instead she only feels increasingly uncomfortable and awkward. She can't see where they're supposed to go from here.

"You sure you're ready to face Santana?" he teases.

Quinn smiles slightly, amused. "You make her sound like a monster." He gives her a pointed look and she concedes. "Yeah, you're right. But we can't exactly just leave her alone in there to bleed to death." Immediately, the seriousness of the situation returns and she feels her spirits dampen as her remind returns to its earlier depressed panic.

She sighs, and turns back into the room. "Come on."

Puck follows without a word but the two of them are brought to a screeching halt when they catch sight of the couch that Santana's resting on. Correction: the couch that Santana's _supposed_ to be resting on. "Where is she?" she demands, a mix between angry and panicked.

Her answer comes in the form of the shower turning on down the hall and Quinn feels herself flush in the beginnings of furry. Immediately, she turns to go after her, _if she thinks she can just –_

Puck stops her with a hand on her arm. "Let her go," he says calmly.

Quinn stares at him in disbelief, mouth gaping. "But she's bleeding to death!"

The footballer grimaces. "Try telling her that. Look, she'll call if she really needs us – I think – but she's not going to appreciate us forcing ourselves upon her. Especially, you know . . . when she's naked."

Quinn just stares at him, wondering where this wise, intuitive boy has come from. Another planet, perhaps? Maybe. All she knows is that this is certainly not the same guy who knocked her up. Not even close.

"Fine," she sighs, crossing her arms. "But you have to call your mum. I don't care if they hate each other, the fact that Santana needs a doctor can't just be ignored."

Puck nods and steps out of the room to go do exactly that, leaving Quinn alone to her thoughts. She suddenly feels unexplainably cold and wraps her arms tighter around herself, a part of wishing that Puck hadn't left. The lounge room is empty now, almost slightly eerie, and she glances around it with a sigh. Immediately, her gaze falls on the couch, which is now stained with blood, and Santana's ruined shirt and jumper which have been left behind along with the bloody towel litter its surface. They're going to have a hard time explaining this to Puck's mum.

Gnawing on her bottom lip nervously, the blonde approaches the couch, wondering whether she should start cleaning things up. The idea doesn't sound all that appealing. She supposes it's not really all that much blood, at least compared to the amounts you see on T.V. when people get shot or stabbed, but it's certainly more than enough for someone who isn't used to the sight.

There are more than 5 litres of blood in the human body; she wonders how much Santana has lost.

Hesitantly, she reaches out and grabs the bloody cloths, hating the way the disgusting liquid on them instantly soaks into her skin. Her stomach gives a little flip and she closes her eyes reflexively. _This is nothing_, she tells herself, _just think of it as ketchup sauce._ Face hardening, she opens her eyes once more and angrily balls up the materials together.

Marching determinedly towards the kitchen, she makes a beeline for the rubbish bin and pulls it out from under the sink. With a little more force than necessary, she tosses the blood-spattered garments into the bin, watching them with a steely gaze as they mingle in with all the other rubbish and food scraps. She imagines doing the same to Santana's stepfather, Mr. Goodman, just tossing him into a bin like a piece of trash, and feels strangely better.

Pushing the bin back into place, Quinn heads back into the lounge room, making a short stop to grab some cleaning materials out of the laundry. Upon entering the lounge room again, the blonde flicks on the radio in hopes of a little distraction, and crouches down in front of the couch, minding her belly. _This Woman's Work_ by Kate Bush drifts out of the cheap speakers near the T.V. and Quinn dips the sponge in her hand into the bucket of warm water she brought with her from the laundry.

' _. . ._ _I know you have a little life in you yet._

_I know you have a lot of strength left. . .'_

The blonde hardens her face and squeezes out the sponge, listening to the sinking splurging sound it makes, before pressing it to the couch. Fiercely she rubs against the persistent red spot there, trying to imagine it as ketchup and nothing more.

For a while she listens half-heartedly to the music, not really paying attention since it's a song that her father used to play over and over again when she was little. She doesn't like to think about her father anymore, her daddy. Quinn knows if she thinks about him now, she'll just want him to take her into his arms and hold her tight, just like he used to. And she knows that can't happen, maybe not ever again.

She's on her own.

That's a funny thought, especially since she's never quite alone anymore, not with Beth tucked away in her tummy, kicking at her every now and again for attention. But she still feels that isolation, though, that kind that can only come when one has a secret to keep hidden all to themselves, a terrible secret.

'_. . . I should be crying, but I just can't let it show._

_I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking. . .'_

Is she really going to lie about all this? Would that really help Santana in the end? Wouldn't it just mean that she'd have to sit by and watch her get hurt, again and again?

Her breathing turns heavy as she struggles against the stain, hands going red as she rubs them with the sponge up against the couch cushion again and again. It's not coming out. Which is stupid because it's just fucking ketchup and Quinn's managed to get that out of her clothes before and she can't understand why she can't do it again. _Just ketchup . . . _

She can't believe she agreed not to tell the police about this, to cover up for Santana. It's insane and it's going to get the brunette killed. There's no doubt in the blonde's mind that that is where it will all eventually lead. And what? She's just supposed to stand by and watch it all happen, only around to clean up the messes when needed?

Quinn's not sure she can do that.

But she has to.

She doesn't have a choice.

She gives one last half-hearted scrub at the cushion before banging her hand against the couch in defeat. "Fuck!" Nothing's going to make it come out.

' _. . . Of all the things we should've said,_

_That were never said._

_All the things we should've done,_

_That we never did._

_All the things that you needed from me._

_All the things that you wanted for me._

_All the things that I should've given,_

_But I didn't. . . '_

Quinn throws up.

. . .

"_**Oh, darling, make it go away. **_

_**Just make it go away now."**_

_**This Woman's Work by Kate Bush**_


	4. Broken Dream

_**A/N: And here I present to you: Chapter Number 4! It's not as long as the last one I'm afraid but I got to a point where it felt right just to end the chapter. It also contains a flashback of Brittany and Santana (I figured since I can't quite bring Brittany back from Holland yet, sadly enough, I can at least bring her back in memory). **_

_**I hope you enjoy!**_

_**Warning: cussing, reference to rape and physical abuse as well as a good strong dose of Finn Cluelessness. **_

_**. . .**_

"_**A broken mess, just scattered pieces of who I am . . ."**_

_**- Pieces by Red**_

…

_**Earlier. . . **_

"_Most of us live in a state of inner conflict which produces outer turmoil and confusion; many escape from conflict into illusion."_

_- Krishnamurti _

It's easy enough to find Santana's place, mostly because he's already been there before – when he dropped her off that time after their one night together – but also because it has to be one of the only pink houses in Lima. Finn's not really sure since it's the only pink house he's ever seen in his life, so maybe it's _the_ only pink house in Lima – no, the only one in the world even. That's kind of cool.

Finn smiles dopily to himself at the thought, pulling up outside Santana's _pink_ house. He might have called her instead – he much rather would have _preferred_ to call her – but he kind of doesn't have her number or, well, _any_ way to contact her, in fact. Besides, if he calls Santana up on her phone she might just think he's some kind of creepy stalker dude . . . which he's not. Ever.

Of course, getting out of the car, it seems to escape his mind that showing up at the girl's house, uninvited, might just be considered creepier than calling her up. He hasn't really thought this through. In fact, he kind of just heard Burt's suggestion, spent a good hour in the bathroom trying to work up the courage to go or otherwise a way to get out of it, before, in a moment of obvious stupidity, grabbing his keys and jumping in the car. He kind of regrets that now.

He spends a good five minutes waiting outside the door of the Lopez's house, unable to find the guts to actually knock and go in. This is due to the fact that his mind can't seem to help itself from racing through the thousands of ways Santana could cause him bodily harm, pausing for long, uncomfortable lengths on the most painful, and basically skipping over the seemingly most humane. This isn't irrational, not really, as he's fairly certain Santana is capable of most of the possibilities he's imagining and she probably wouldn't have a qualm against doing any one of them either.

Finn's also kind of afraid that if he does knock on the door and Santana doesn't open it, the next worse thing will be there instead – her father. He's never met Mr. Lopez before – he assumes it's Mr. Lopez, since he's never heard a thing about him; in fact, he doesn't even know for sure if Santana _has_ a father – but it goes mostly without saying that, as someone who has basically taken part in the spawning of Satan, that he wouldn't be pleasant company . . . or at all happy that a boy who has slept with his sixteen-year-old daughter is now on his doorstep. Santana has to have gotten her scariness from someone and all arrows, in Finn's mind, point to this guy.

He's going to die.

The football player shudders at thought before finally mastering up a good dose of courage and knocking on the door.

Luckily for Finn, neither of the two devils he's imagined open the door and instead it is pulled back by a young woman with flowing dark hair and blue eyes that stand out startling well on her face. She also looks a lot like Santana – bar the eyes which are, well, blue and kind of doe-like. A _lot_ like her. in fact, the resemblance is so striking that Finn nearly falls over in shock. Seriously, he could be looking at Santana's older twin sister right now.

Wow.

_Wait, can twin sisters be older?_

Mrs. Lopez smiles at him and it's immediately disarming; mostly because it's just weird to see someone wearing the face of Santana smile – which the Latina doesn't normally do. _Whoa_. "Hi," she greets with a voice that sounds thick and warm, like honey, and puts a matching smile on Finn's face. "Can I help you?"

Finn's looks the woman up and down, trying not to be too obvious but he has a feeling he fails at that tremendously. Now that he's gotten over the apparent shock of Santana having a lookalike, he can really take in the woman's appearance.

Mrs. Lopez is wearing a low-cut purple halter top that doesn't quite cover her cleavage – not that he's looking – and make-up covers her face at every turn. The whole effect makes her kind of look like a hooker but Finn wipes this thought shamefully from his mind, not wanting to think of any of his friend's parents that way (not that Santana's his friend or, well, his anything really), it's actually kind of insulting and Finn sort of likes this woman. Although, if she is a hooker that would certainly explain a lot about Santana. Like a lot.

She's really young, too, for the mother of a sixteen-year-old anyway; in fact, he thinks she might be about a decade younger than his mum, not that Carol Hudsen is old or anything. No, his mother is perfect in Finn's eyes. But Mrs. Lopez is definitely young (maybe Mr. Shue's age?) and it's kind of weird. He tries not to glance back down at her chest, knowing it's something Puck would do and not wanting to be anything like the guy who was once his best friend. Besides, he's not really attracted to older chicks; even if he can already tell that Puck would probably say that this particular older chick would be prime MILF. Finn thinks over that, wondering what MILF actually means; all he knows is that Puck kind of says it a lot, and unnecessarily.

He looks into her blue eyes and finds himself taken aback by what he sees. He thinks there should be a bright glint in there, or a lukewarm glow to match the voice, but all he finds is a kind of ancient tiredness that matches his mum's own eyes – sort of like she lost something a little while back and doesn't have the means, or the will, to go back and retrieve it. Even more accurately, she looks like she started on the journey of her life, took all it had to throw at her, and then just kind of gave up a few miles back. Yeah, that's it.

It's rather unsettling.

"Uh, I was just looking for Santana Lopez." He resists the urge to kick himself for adding on that last part – of course Santana _Lopez_, like there would be any other Santanas living in this house. _So stupid_. "I'm Finn, by the way. Finn Hudsen."

Mrs. Lopez smiles at him, eyes lighting up with amusement. "Of course you are. You look just like Quinn described you, only dopier." There's no harshness in her words, only a light fondness, and Finn feels himself smiling despite himself. "She actually hasn't been around lately. I hope she's doing OK."

"Uh, yeah. I think she's OK. I mean, there's all that baby stuff . . . and stuff." He thinks for a moment, wondering how Quinn is now himself. He shouldn't really, though, not after what she did but he can't help himself. He loved her.

Sadness enters the woman's eyes for a moment and she clears her throat uncomfortably. "Yeah, I was sorry to hear about that. She's got a hard road ahead of her, I can see that. She deserves better."

Normally, after what Quinn did, Finn would deny this but, surprisingly, he finds himself nodding along in agreement with her, and kind of _actually _agreeing as well. Quinn's a bitch . . . but she also kind of has her moments as well and she doesn't really deserve this, no more than anyone else at any rate. "Yeah."

The smile returns to Mrs. Lopez's face, this time looking apologetic. "You say you were looking for Santana?"

"Yeah." Though, now he's feeling a little iffy on that front. After all, does he really want to risk life and limb just to apologise to some girl? His mind flits back to the anger in the Latina's eyes as she tore her hand out of his grip and now sees it for what it really was – hurt. Yes. He does want to do this.

The woman sighs. "I'm afraid she's not here."

Finn frowns, disheartened. "Do you know where she might be?"

She shrugs her shoulders carelessly. "She didn't leave a note or anything but I assume she would be at Brittany's or Puck's. That's where she usually disappears to. Or Matt's."

Finn doesn't feel the need to point out that Brittany is actually in Holland right now and Matt is visiting relatives in the next state over. He thinks, as her mother, that she should know this but decides that maybe it's just one of those relationships where the kids don't tell their parents everything (he's heard about those). It would make sense, after all, since a lot of the things Santana gets up to in her free time aren't exactly for a parent's ears.

"Oh." His spirits drop. "Thanks." Mrs. Lopez nods and he moves to turn away and go but stops, another thought occurring. "Um, I was just wondering whether you could maybe not mention this to Santana's dad. I mean, I just . . ." He tries to think of a delicate way of saying that he doesn't want to be beaten up by the Latina's father for sleeping with his daughter but finds none. _Uh . . . _

But she smiles, getting it, and Finn remembers that this _is _the mother of Santana and that she probably knows exactly what goes on in her daughter's life. Well, maybe not exactly; he doesn't think anyone knows _exactly_ what goes on Santana's life. Well, maybe God (if he believed in God). "Don't worry. He's asleep upstairs in our room, so he'll probably never find out about this little visit. Though, I understand why you're nervous." She chuckles. "Garry's a sweetie but he can be rather old fashioned when it comes to relationships and teenagers. He's kind of like my father in that respect."

Finn nods his head not really knowing what to think of that but smiles in thanks anyway. Yeah, he kind of likes Santana's mum.

. . .

_**Three Years Ago**_

_Santana and Brittany were laying on the blonde's bed, idly talking about their favourite movies and, if they could be anyone in the world, who would they be? Brittany had thought over the question, her thirteen-year-old face screwing up in concentration as she tried to decide. Santana found it adorable but didn't say so, instead choosing to wait patiently for an answer. Finally, the blonde had replied with a joyous 'Ariel, from the Little Mermaid,' before going on to explain that this was because then she would be able to swim under the ocean, have a fish friend called Flounder, a crab that followed her around and kept an eye on her (kind of like Santana) and she would be able to sing really well about things like legs and kissing girls (the Latina had snickered at that one)._

"_What about you?" Brittany asked with a smile, once she was done thinking over how wonderful it would be to be become a mermaid._

_Santana didn't have to think about it. "The Tin Man from Wizard of Oz."_

_The blonde's face screwed up in distaste. "But, San, he's a _boy._ And besides, he doesn't have a heart."_

"_No, but it'd be perfect. I wouldn't have to feel a thing, ever, and no-one could ever hurt me," the brunette responded not to be dissuaded. She'd thought this over, every aspect, and was perfectly sold on her answer. "I'd be untouchable." Her eyes opened wide in wonder at the thought and she smiled slightly._

_In contrast, Brittany didn't look too happy with the idea. "But . . . would you be able to feel this?" She reached out and ran a hand down the side of her best friend's face, eliciting a shiver and causing the brunette's eyes to flicker at the sensation. She'd always liked Brittany's touches. _

"_I don't know."_

. . .

_**Present**_

Santana closes her eyes as the hot water sears her flesh, stinging the wound on her back and turning her skin an ugly red. This has become routine by now, washing him off her, washing it _all_ off her. It's painful, just like it should be, kind of like being reborn or remade (if she was into that whole Christian born-again crap or whatever it is her grandfather's always going on about).

She listlessly watches as the blood runs smoothly down her body into the water at her feet, turning it a sickly shade of red. That's nothing new. It swirls around and around when it reaches the drain, disappearing down it only to be replaced by yet more crimson water. It never ends.

The brunette clenches her fingers and slams her eyes shut, gritting her teeth together. She wants to scream or cry or do _something_, something that will get rid of this terrible yet familiar tightness in her chest, squeezing and squashing until the point where she almost can't breathe anymore, but she can't bring herself to do _any_ of those things. None will help. Screaming will just alert Quinn and Puck and crying will only turn her into a weak little marshmallow that people can stomp on. She's better than that.

She hopes she's better than that.

Eyes closed, Santana feels the gritty hands pushing their way beneath her Cheerio's uniform, roughly forcing up her skirt, and shudders. She'll never be able to get these images out of her head, not for as long as she lives. There's so many of them, spanning for more than a year, that she can't recall which ones happened where and how she fought back that day. Or whether she even fought back at all.

Lately, she hasn't been doing much of that, rather choosing to just take it as it comes; after all, it's always worse when she puts up a struggle anyway. The admittance of this still make her cringe with shame – since when has Santana _not_ fought back, against anything? Tonight was different, though. Tonight she was pissed beyond reason and wasn't about to let that fucker trample all over her _again_, not without a fight. Blame it on Finn and his lack of finesse, blame it on Brittany's absence, blame it on teenage mood swings and uncontrollable hormones but there you have it.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

Thinking of Brittany, even just for a second, just makes her feel worse and Santana clenches her fingers tighter, wishing the blonde was here with her. It's a stupid wish because her friend's in Holland and even if she wasn't she could never let Brittany see her like this. Not sweet, innocent Brittany who still thinks evil is kind of Jell-O served church (it's not completely insane; they just so happened to be doing the chapter on Hell in Sunday School when Jell-O was being passed around as a treat: totally easy to misunderstand).

That doesn't make her yearn for the other girl's company any less, though. She presses a hand up against the shower wall and closes her eyes again. "I need you," she lets out painfully, hating herself for admitting such a weakness. She doesn't need anyone but herself, she's all she's got.

Santana nearly snorts at the notion. _Yeah, you don't need anyone; that's why you're camped out in fucking Puck's fucking bathroom. _"Stupid."

She still doesn't know what possessed her to show up at the Puckerman's in her condition. It isn't that she needed their help, despite what Quinn said, she just needed somewhere to go, somewhere away from _Him_.

She's never felt so conflicted in her life. She wants Brittany – she doesn't want Brittay; She wants Puck and Quinn's help – she loathes the very idea of asking _anyone_ for help; she wants to smash Garry's head in with a mallet, to _completely_ destroy him – she's secretly too scared to do anything of the sort; and Santana wants to slap Billy Lopez across the face, knock some sense into her, and pour out the million and one frustrations and resentments that have piled up over the years, scream at her that she's a bad mother . . . but at the same time she just wants the woman to wrap her in her arms and hold her, like she's supposed to.

It's all so messed up. So very fucking messed up and Santana doesn't see how anyone could ever sort it all out. It's impossible. She knows this.

She still hopes anyway.

The sixteen-year-old sighs and switches off the taps, turning the cold off first and allowing the hot to run just a few seconds longer than necessary. It burns her skin, just as expected, but in the end she can't feel a thing. She's numb to it.

She thinks of Puck and Quinn down the hallway and wonders why they're doing this. Puck's known her a long time and he cares about her, she knows this, but she also knows there's a good chance he cares about hotdogs more than her so it really doesn't amount to much. Quinn hates Santana and she kind of hates her too. This isn't guessing either, Santana knows this just as well as she knows 2 and 2 add up to 4; it's just basic knowledge. Still, she can't shake the image of Quinn's face from earlier when she was sprawled on the couch after waking up – the blonde had a mixture of anger, panic and . . . love in her eyes. And that just doesn't make sense at all.

She remembers listening to the blonde arguing with Puck, unable to make out the exact words and too exhausted to bother trying anyway, and then stilling as she heard Quinn break down into sobs. The first thought that popped into her head was: 'What a wimp.' It didn't last long – In the amount of time that Santana's known the blonde, crying has become almost a daily occurrence since the age of six so Quinn's always been kind of a wimp in her eyes, nothing new there. She then wondered, spitefully, what the girl really had to be crying about. Wasn't it Santana who'd just gotten the shit beaten out of her? The thought was fleeting though because, really, Santana just didn't give a crap to waste time thinking about it and instead she moved on to just being extremely uncomfortable.

She doesn't like it when people cry.

So she did what she does best: she ran. Not literally, of course, in fact she kind of had to limp/hop away, but she did get out of that room good and fast. She'd thought about climbing out the window before remembering that she had nowhere else to go and she didn't exactly want to be spending the night in her car, plus she didn't have a shirt on. Besides, Puck and Quinn probably wouldn't have appreciated that, especially not after she bloodied up their couch. Not that she cares what they think.

The shower door opens and Santana steps out into a foggy mist that clouds her gaze and wraps around her in a cloak-like formation. She thinks that, if it was thick enough, she'd hide in it and never come out. She thinks that would be nice. Santana snaps out of the thought, though, upon reminding herself that she doesn't hide from anything – she's brave.

She hopes.

Walking over towards the mirror, though, proves her wrong. Every step is a challenge and she keeps wanting to back away from the coming task; she's never liked reflections and what she's about to force herself to see she already knows from Puck and Quinn's horrified expressions isn't going to be pretty. She's strong, though (sort of), and completes the short distance eventually, expertly ignoring the fact that her hands are shaking – it's just the cold, even if the heater's on.

She doesn't bother reaching for a towel and trying to dry herself: the longer she remains wet the longer she has an excuse to stay in here, away from everything and everyone else. Taking a breath, she turns away from the mirror and looks over her shoulder. Her hair is plastered to her skin, masking her back, and painfully she pulls it away to reveal two three centimetre marks situated next to each other just below her right shoulder. The blood's been washed away by the shower now, though there's still some persistently drizzling its way out, so she can see exactly what Garry has left on her.

_GG._

There's no use wondering what it stands for and she remembers with startling clarity the sound of his shout, the shattering of a vodka bottle, and the feeling of a piece of glass digging into her skin, ripping, tearing. She closes her eyes against the memory and only finds it clearer behind her eyelids, haunting her.

She turns around to face the mirror fully again and falls forward, resting her hands against the bathroom bench for support. Her fingers dig into the edge of it.

It's strange but, somehow, this is the worst thing he's ever done to her – worse than the beatings, the rape. Because this is permanent, so very permanent, and the other things, as painful as they were and are, are just temporary, passing moments in her life (she hopes, anyway). This will stay with her forever, embedded on her skin as a constant reminder.

She's always harboured the fantasy of getting away – away from Lima, away from her mother, away from Garry. Now she knows that will never happen. He'll always stay with her now, she'll never ever be able to forget. Her one chance of escaping has been taken from her before she's even had a chance to put it into play.

The knowledge is crushing.

Once again Santana thinks of Brittany and how she could really use her right now. She wonders if, if she wishes hard enough, the blonde will appear, smile and take her in her arms. The Head Cheerio allows her body to fold beneath her and sits, expressionless, on the cold white tiles, her back leaning against the sink. A drop of blood glides effortlessly down her back, pooling on the floor and standing out in terrible contrast against the white. She waits.

Brittany doesn't come. No-one does.

.. .

"_There were many ways of breaking a heart. Stories were full of hearts broken by love, but what really broke a heart was taking away its dream – whatever that dream might be."_

_- Pearl S. Buck_

…

_**A/N: So, what'd you think? There will be more about Finn next chapter and Mrs. Puckerman will finally make an appearance. And while Mrs. Lopez might have seemed nicer than Santana has described, that meeting was all from Finn's point of view (needless to say, his judgement probably isn't very trustworthy), plus I'm not going to make anyone a straight up evil character (that's not how I like to write things since I believe everyone has different levels and no-one is just a super villain out of a Disney movie, though that doesn't mean that they're aren't some very bad people out there). On that note, Mrs. Lopez is definitely not a good mother, though I'm sure you could have pretty much worked that out for yourself.**_

_**OK, I'm going to stop rambling now. **_


	5. Choices

_**A/N: And I have another long chapter. You know, this night that I'm writing about has to be the longest one in history, it just keeps going and going (I'm starting to think I should have called the story The Night That Never Ends, instead). I still haven't finished writing about it yet and then I have the rest of the week to write about as well (yikes!); I hope I'm not boring you too much with the slow pace. Thanks for the reviews from the previous chapter and I really love getting them. **_

"_God; _

_Give us the serenity to accept what cannot be changed; _

_Give us the courage to change what should be changed; _

_Give us the wisdom to distinguish one from the other."_

_- Reinhold Neiburh_

"Why is there ketchup on your sofa?" is the first thing out of Finn's mouth upon entering the Puckerman's household. It's not exactly smart or anything near the proper greeting of 'Hello', but he's so nervous to be in the presence of Quinn and Puck again, _alone_ in their house – Well, it's actually really Puck's house . . . no, his mum's – that he kind of jumped on the first thing that could distract him. Ketchup seemed like the next best thing after a bag of corn-chips.

He likes ketchup. You can do a lot of things with ketchup; like put it on chips, put it on meat, sprinkle it on fried eggs and, uh, . . . Finn frowns, trying to think of some other things. You can play out a murder scene – ketchup can be a good substitute for blood –, pretend you're a vampire like that kid in The Little Vampire – he swears he hasn't seen it for over six years and certainly didn't rent it last weekend, and, uh . . .

Again, he's stuck.

Not that there's anything unusual about spilling ketchup on a couch – Finn does it all the time, even if he does blame the dog when his mother tells him off (even though they don't have a dog) – but that's a lot of ketchup. They must have been having a ketchup war or something for that much to be spilt.

Actually, that sounds kind of fun.

He glances up, away from the sofa, and finally takes a good look at Puck and Quinn. Puck's looking kind of angry (so maybe there was a war), arms crossed and standing in the corner of the lounge room, whilst Quinn is growing steadily paler and looks quite sick. To confirm his suspicions, she speaks up, looking at him with a disgusted expression that he hopes really has nothing to do with him.

"I think I'm going to be sick again," she murmurs, closing her eyes and cringing. It's then Finn notices the rather obvious puddle of vomit by the couch, and the smell that surrounds it, and resists the urge to gag. _Gross._

"Not in my house you're not," Puck tells her, not looking very sympathetic to the blonde's plight though Finn does notice a slight twitch in his frame like he's itching to go to her but, for some reason, is holding himself back. "Ma'll flip."

Quinn makes a face and opens her mouth to respond before shutting it again. Finn gets the feeling that whatever she could have said probably wouldn't have put Anne Puckerman in a good light nor done her any favours. She sighs, though, and puts a hand to her face, which has grown only paler in that short length of time.

For the first time that night, Finn gets the feeling that something is actually really, really wrong. His stomach churns and even his own face goes a little pale. "What's going on?"

Puck ignores the question and Quinn shakes her head, walking towards a bucket of water by the couch with the obvious intention of cleaning the vomit up. Finn thinks this could have waited – though he really doesn't like the smell – but gets the idea that maybe the blonde just needs something to distract herself with right now. "Nothing," she says finally, the words seemingly bitter in her mouth. "_Nothing_ is going on. What are you doing here anyway?"

Finn blushes, remembering his reason and suddenly feeling kind of embarrassed. "I, uh, wanted to apologise to Santana."

"I already knew that. For _what_?" she snaps and it's clear that she's not in the best of moods. Finn watches nervously as she crouches by the sofa and sets to work on cleaning up the messy puddle on the floor. She keeps one hand clutched protectively around her bulging belly and he wonders whether it's really the best thing to let her clean. Shouldn't pregnant women like, you know, rest 24/7 or something? Maybe go on a cruise?

"I, uh . . ." He thinks back to the reason and feels his blush deepen; it's not exactly something he wants to discuss with Puck and Quinn. "I think I . . . kind of . . . may have . . . hurt her feelings."

Quinn blinks disbelievingly and Puck snorts as if Finn has just uttered some kind of lame-ass joke. It's obvious from the beginning that they don't believe him and the football player frowns, wondering why everyone has such low expectations (or high, he guesses, in this case) of him. He can hurt peoples' feelings – he can! Not that he actively tries, because that would be bad, but he is still very capable. He has the ability.

Finn frowns, rethinking it over. It _is_ slightly harder to believe that he has the ability to hurt _Santana's_ feelings, though – even _he_ didn't believe that at first. But seriously, they could _try _to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"What'd you do?" Puck asks with a small smirk. "Spill soda on her Cheerio's outfit?"

Finn frowns, looking down at the ground and muttering to himself, _"That was one time . . ."_

"OK, seriously, what happened?" Quinn questions after a pause, face screwed up in concentration as she rubs at the stain on the floor. Despite her question, she doesn't seem to be paying much attention to him or the conversation.

"She wanted to have sex with me and I said no," Finn reveals in a rush, closing his eyes and waiting for the degrading remarks sure to follow.

Puck doesn't disappoint. "Wait a minute, a super hot girl offers to have sex with you . . . _and you turn her down_? You turned down _Santana Lopez_?" he asks in disbelief, looking at Finn like he's either from another planet or just simply some poor stupid misguided boy. Possibly both. "Dude, what is wrong with you?"

Quinn's eyes widen at this and she glares at him scoldingly. "Puck! I'm sure Finn was just being a gentleman. It's something that you might want to try out for once." She frowns, though, and turns back to Finn. "But what were you doing with Santana that would lead to _that_ coming up?"

"Um, she was at my house – well, Kurt's house. She said something about needing a place to stay."

Quinn's eyes narrow and Puck straightens up. "She came to you for a place to stay?"

"Well, technically she came to Kurt," Finn corrects with a slight frown, oblivious to the deep waters he's just entered into. "Then she wanted to sleep with me and _that_ was when I turned her down. I think I may have been kind of hurtful about it, though. I'm not sure on that one."

The blonde girl's not really listening though, just shaking her head in a mixture of disbelief and anger. "You – You could have stopped this," she stutters finally, face flushed and eyes wide as she rises slowly from the ground. "S-She came to you for help and you . . . and you could have _stopped_ this!" her voice rises towards the end, disbelief disappearing into rage.

Finn takes a step back, startled by her exclamation. He doesn't know what's going on, only that something bad has happened and that he's somehow responsible. Eyes widening in alarm, he takes yet another step back as Quinn moves towards him, surprisingly fast for someone as far along in her pregnancy as her. "I can't believe you!"

"Whoa!" Puck gasps, finally abandoning his place in the corner, along with his neutral attitude, and stepping forward just in time to grab a hold of her and prevent her from murdering Finn Hudsen right then and there in his mother's lounge room; such a thing would certainly made his Ma 'flip'. "Jesus, Quinn," he says, pulling her gently back and placing a soothing hand on the side of her belly, as if reminding her that she has more important things to be worrying about. "He doesn't know anything about anything. Apart from the fact that turning down Santana means he's very obviously gay and is going to break Berry's heart, this isn't his fault."

The blonde just shakes her head, tearing out of his group, and heading back to her place by the couch. Finn watches with wide eyes the glare she continues to send his way and, yet again, begins to wonder just _what_ is going on. "Guys . . . where's Santana?" he asks, for the first time really considering the brunette's absent. He did come here after all to apologise to _her_, not to get in a bitch fight with Quinn Fabray and suffer the torment of Puck's rather lewd sense of humour.

Quinn shakes her head at the question but doesn't say anything, avoiding his gaze and once again setting to work on the vomit stain. An uneasy feeling settles itself in the pit of Finn's stomach and he swallows. "What happened?"

Puck opens his mouth to say something but the blonde cuts him off, apparently too angry to let anyone else speak. "That bastard beat her up." Finn watches as Puck scowls at her, eyes glinting warningly, and his heart starts beating to a whole new rhythm, specifically one that is a lot faster.

"What bastard?" he asks dumbly, now mostly on autopilot.

Quinn and Puck exchange a glance, weighing up their options before he sighs, giving in, apparently seeing no other way out of it. "Garry."

"The sweetie?" Finn's confusion intensifies. He really doesn't get it, any of it. First they're talking about sleeping-with-Santana or, rather, not-sleeping-with-Santana, then Quinn's blaming him for something that he didn't even know he did, then she's saying something about Santana being beaten up, and now Sweetie Garry is a bastard?

Again, Puck and Quinn share a look – This is going to need a lot of explaining.

. . .

Anne Puckerman, despite what her son might like to think, is not oblivious. She knew that, when Noah was in the fourth grade and he started arriving home late, around about the same time that Mrs. Mooney's house three blocks down kept getting egged, that he was the culprit, despite what he might say to the contrary even today. However, she never said anything because Mrs. Mooney used to call her a whore behind her back in high school and Anne never forgets an offence against her, nor lets it slide. She decided that the egging business was a certain kind of revenge on the woman and one that she could live by. It seemed satisfactory enough, at any rate.

When Puck was fifteen he liked to pretend that Santana only came over once a week and only when his mother was at home. Anne, however, had seen the girl sneaking out of his room and down the hallway most nights and made sure to put a box of condoms in her son's room every week (he just thought that his girlfriend had left them there, or he had otherwise forgotten that he bought them; typical).

She also pretended not to notice the bruises on the young girl's body or the sudden fluctuation in her moods that went beyond the simple it's-just-teenage-hormones, even though she knew the signs well enough from when Frank, her husband – no, ex husband – used to toss her around. If Anne was a nicer woman, she would have said something to the girl, tried to help her out, but, in the end, Santana reminded her too much of herself and she was not yet ready to face that. She opted for leaving the back door unlocked instead.

Anne also remembers the time when she saw the smashed picture of Quinn Fabray in her son's room (Santana's doing) and had recalled the rumours going around Lima that the Christian girl was pregnant. Her son was walking around the house with a guilty look on his face for a couple of weeks after that and by the time he had gotten up the courage to tell her the truth – the same time when he brought Quinn home with him to move in – she had already figured it out. By then she'd had a while to deal with the horrible knowledge and didn't scream nor shout, instead choosing to settle for a disappointed look. She still doesn't know whether it had any effect on him.

Because of all this, she didn't even hesitate when her son rang her up at work, explaining that she was needed at home. All he had to do was mutter one simple word – Santana – and she was out the door.

Now, as she steps in through the front door, Anne wonders what sort of war zone she's entered into. Puck's sitting on a chair in the corner of the lounge room, listening silently to the radio as he waits and broods. Quinn has a wash cloth and bucket in hand and is scrubbing at the sofa, the colour of which has seemed to have changed since the last time that the mother saw it, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying. She can also recognise Finn Hudsen, standing slack jawed not too far away. He seems to be in a state of shock but, then, he always looks like that.

The smell of vomit pervades the air.

"Are you all alright?" Anne asks, knowing it's a pointless question.

"Uh, yeah," Quinn breathes, rising unsteadily to her feet. She cups her baby belly self-consciously, reminding Mrs. Puckerman of the horrible situation her son has gotten himself into. It doesn't matter that the blonde's decided to give the baby up, she remains firmly convinced that this has ruined her son's life and that the action will, despite its best intentions, break Noah's heart.

Her son scoffs at the statement, clearly not sharing Quinn's belief, and the Christian girl (she still can't believe that Noah didn't at least have the decency to knock up a Jew) lowers her head, avoiding eye contact. It's obvious that they're not alright and even more obvious that something very wrong has happened.

She spares a glance at the sofa with the strange stains and grimaces, knowing from experience that they're blood and resisting the urge to swipe the cloth from Quinn's slackened grasp and take over with the cleaning; Anne Puckerman is a neat freak, according to her son and daughter at any rate. She can't handle a mess of any sort in her house, not when it only reflects the state of her life, so cleaning has become a habit, a way to control the disorder. She only wishes she could sort out her own life as easily.

"Leave it," she tells the blonde, voice leaving no room for argument. "I'll clean it up later. Where's Santana?"

All heads turn to the right, down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. There's no sound of a shower running, no stormy hum from the hairdryer that she really needs to replace . . . no anything. It's just silent, except for the low echo of the radio.

"She's been in there a while," Quinn says quietly, brow creasing in concern. "I was just thinking about going and checking on her." Anne can tell from the flicker of her eyes that she's lying.

"What happened?" the mother asks instead of pointing this out, even though she knows the answer.

Noah looks down, avoiding her gaze. "She's in pretty bad shape, Ma." She can sense that he's trying to avoid telling her why she's in 'pretty bad shape' but she's used to it. He never tells her anything anymore. Her son glances at the blonde who's still by at the couch, looking thoroughly exhausted. "Quinn thinks she might need stitches."

Anne nods her head. "I'll determine that for myself, I'm sure it's not as bad as you think." This is a lie but she wants to put the kids' minds at rest; they already have enough on their plates without this, too, and Quinn looks like she's about to drop. Speaking of which . . . "Quinn, I want you to go to bed. No arguments," she adds when it looks like the blonde's about to protest. "You're in your final trimester now and all this stress cannot be doing that baby of yours any good. The last thing we need right now is for you to go into labour," she mutters, face a clear expression of irritation. She's never liked Quinn Fabray much and her getting pregnant with her son's baby has made her like her even less. But she's stuck with her for however long so Anne has long since decided that she's just going to have to deal with it. That doesn't mean she has to be nice to her, though. She glances at Finn, who's looking more confused than ever, and sighs. "And you, Finn, I don't know what you're doing here at 3:00am but at the moment I really don't care. I also think you should leave before your mother has a heart attack." The boy nods sheepishly in consent.

"What about me?" Noah asks, frustration clear in his face as he realizes that he's been left off. Anne knows that his only desire is to run to Santana's side and sit by her through this whole thing but, thankfully, he holds off. Ms. Puckerman sighs at this; the relationship between her son and Santana Lopez has always confused her. It's not love, she thinks, but it _is_ something. She just hopes that that something is healthy. She knows how unlikely that is the moment the thought enters into her head. With her luck, she'll be dishing out therapy money for the both of them when they're in they're twenties.

"What about you?" Anne responds disinterestedly. She's going through the first aid kit by the couch, searching out the things she'll need. There's anti-bacterial gel, bandages and sutures, which, if Quinn is right, she'll definitely need. There's nothing in the kit that could go in the way of numbing anyone's pain, though, so she makes a mental note to bring up some pain killers for afterwards.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Get yourself a mattress and set up on the floor. It's about time you got some sleep – I'm not having you stay home from school tomorrow." It's her day off and she won't be spending it listening to the crash and bangs from the playstation in the background.

"But Ma . . ." Noah groans, looking thoroughly put out.

"Don't you 'but' me, Noah Moses Puckerman. I'd prefer it if you actually pass high school."

He nods resignedly and Anne returns to her task, only to be interrupted by a panicked Quinn.

"What about Santana? She can't go to school tomorrow – she's a mess! But she can't stay at her place either, I mean, it'd be too,-" She cuts off and blushes, as if seeming to realize that she might have said too much.

Mrs. Puckerman purses her lips, thinking it over. No, they can't send Santana home or to school but she doesn't particularly want the girl in her house for a long period of time either, seeing as she's a menace to be around. The mother's also slightly worried about Liv, who, while only eight, will still manage to catch on to the fact that something is horribly wrong if the Latina stays around long enough for her to notice. On the other hand, she doesn't really have any other option. "I'll sort it out," she says firmly, lifting the first aid kit up in her hand.

Finn's drifting towards the door, looking extremely awkward, and Anne offers him a soft goodbye smile. She likes the boy, he's always been sweet and she's known him since he was practically a babe. She's known Santana for about the same amount of time, also, but she's never been sweet. Shy at one stage, naïve the next . . . but never sweet.

Anne blames the girl's mother, who, while very sweet in high school, had never had any hope of being responsible enough to raise a child or to pass on that sweetness. If she wants to be really precise, she could go on to blame Billy Lopez's father who'd had a lot to answer for from the start but she doesn't feel like getting into all that tonight.

She's just about out of the room when Quinn's suddenly in front of her, moving surprisingly fast for a pregnant person.

"Mrs. Puckerman?" the blonde girl starts hesitantly, looking anxious.

Anne sighs, preparing herself for any of the melodramatic babble that is sure to come out of Quinn Fabray's mouth. "What is it, Quinn?" she asks with a patience that she doesn't feel.

"You'll . . . You'll take care of her, right?" she questions finally, blue eyes wide with worry. "You'll make sure she's alright. I'm just . . . I'm really worried about her."

For a moment, all the woman can do is stare. This is certainly a new side to Quinn that she has never seen before. Up until now, she has remained convinced that the sixteen-year-old is nothing but a vapid and bossy individual who likes to blame everyone else for her problems. But now, now she can see real concern in the Christian girl's face, can hear the urgency in her tone.

A newfound fondness towards Quinn arises in her and she pats the girl's arm comfortingly, offering her a smile that she doesn't feel. "You know I will."

The blonde nods, worried but satisfied, and steps out of her way. Anne smiles her way pass, just to keep the pregnant teen's stress at bay, and is once again almost out of the room when something catches her gaze. Mouth open, she stops in her tracks. "Noah?"

"Yeah?" he asks disinterestedly and she can hear him fiddling with the radio in the background. _God give me strength not to kill my son . . ._

"Why is there a duck in my lounge room?" she asks with forced calmness.

All eyes turn to the little yellow duckling who's currently waddling around the outer ring of the lounge room, quacking away contentedly to itself. Anne can already see a few messy droppings by the doorway and she closes her eyes in an effort not to explode and murder everyone in the room.

"Oh, that's Santana's; name's Satan Jr., I thought it up myself," Noah answers easily, before frowning in confusion. "I don't really know what he's doing here."

"Get rid of him, will you? My house is already mess enough without a _duck _making it worse."

"Sure, Ma. I'll put him in Liv's bed."

"Noah!"

. . .

When she finds Santana, the small girl – not really a girl anymore, she has to remind herself, though she knows she'll forget again – Is sitting, knees tucked up to her chest, on the floor of the bathroom. She's situated in the corner where the bench meets the wall, white towel wrapped protectively around her, and staring off into the distance. She blinks when Mrs. Puckerman enters the room but gives no other sign of acknowledgement. If Anne was expecting tears, she finds none. The only sound is the steady drip from the Latina's still wet hair and the mother has to stop herself from shaking her head in disapproval – the girl's going to catch pneumonia on top of everything else.

"Puck called you," Santana guesses, not looking at her but rather keeping her gaze focused on the wall.

Anne nods her head stiffly and sets the first aid kit on the floor before crouching down in front of the younger brunette. "He did." She takes in the darkening bruise over the girl's eye, the cut on her lip and finds yet another bruise on her chest, ducking beneath the rim of the towel. The woman can tell from just looking that none of these are all that serious and will probably heal within a week so she knows this is not what had her son and Quinn so worried.

"He shouldn't have," the sixteen-year-old mutters and Anne sees the first sparks of life in her eyes since entering the bathroom – the dull beginnings of irritation.

Mrs. Puckerman scoffs at that but doesn't say anything – they both know very well that Noah did the right thing. "Alright," she says finally, giving up on searching out the Latina's many ailments since it's getting her nowhere. Apart from a few more bruises and cuts, she still hasn't found anything to panic over yet. Though, knowing Quinn, this could be exactly what she panicked over as the blonde _is _prone to overreaction. "Where's the worse of it?"

The defensive glare that Santana sends her is reminiscent of Anne's days at school, when she had effectively ruled over the entire student body. Life had been a lot simpler then, hard certainly, but not nearly as complicated as things had become. Sometimes, she would get out her old Year Books and search out the photos, sighing at the happy faces of herself and people she had once known.

She would never admit it but she hasn't felt that happiness for a long time now and it makes her guilty when in the presence of her children, knowing that they should indeed be filling her with that happiness. Does that make her a bad mother? Anne doesn't know and she has a feeling that she doesn't want to know either.

"Don't you glare at me, Santana Alejandra Lopez," she reprimands sternly. "Didn't you ever listen to my warnings when you were younger about how your face would stick that way?" It doesn't go over either of their heads that, in a way, it has. Whenever Anne sees the cheerleader these days she always seems to be scowling with only a few short occasions containing a smile.

Santana stares at her for a moment, not knowing quite what to make of that, before allowing a short, humorous, snort to escape her and she shakes her head in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "I don't think I did." She pauses and locks gazes with Anne hesitantly, wetting her lips. " . . . It's on my back," she admits finally, reluctantly.

If she is surprised by the girl's basic surrender, she doesn't show it. Anne nods contemplatively. "OK. Take the towel off and turn around." She instructs, knowing that the last thing Santana probably wants to do right now is unveil herself to her but there's really no other way to go about this. With great hesitance, Santana does as she's told and turns around, dropping the towel slightly until her whole back is out in the open and only the area around her lap is covered. Ms. Puckerman knows that her reluctance in the task has nothing to do with modesty but rather a deep rooted fear of appearing more vulnerable than necessary and she sighs, knowing this is not going to be an easy task. The Latina's knuckles turn white as they clench around the fabric of the towel to keep whatever emotions she has on the inside trapped there.

There are two rough marks on the girl's back in the shape of Gs, and Anne can also see the outline of blood smudged around the area in a sign that it is still bleeding. Sure enough, when the woman looks down there is a small red stain on the once pristine white towel and she has to resist the urge to growl in frustration – it's very nearly impossible to get blood out; she would know.

"Alright. Let's see what we can do about this." For the next ten minutes she attentively tends to Santana's wound, the sixteen-year-old flinching at certain intervals when the pain becomes too much.

She wants the other girl to open up to her but at the same time she doesn't. She knows that Santana needs to, yes, but Anne doesn't particularly want to hear anything she has to say. This whole situation just reminds her too much of what she went through with Frank and she hates the Latina for that. The emotion is, of course, unfair but Ms. Puckerman has never had much to do with fair in her life so the knowledge doesn't really bother her. She hates Santana Lopez for irrational reasons but she's come to accept that over time and even move past it, she's had to.

"Did you know it was Noah who called them in the end?" Anne murmurs absentmindedly, running a wash cloth over the wound just to make sure that it really is clean.

Santana squints in confusion. "What?"

"The police. He was the one who called the police back when Frank was abusing me. I couldn't bring myself to do it." She sighs, remembering back to those days and wondering why exactly she never had the courage to pick up the phone. She knows the answer, of course: she was afraid of what would happen, she didn't want Noah and Liv to be dragged into a situation like that . . . she still loved him. They're all really just excuses in the end, none that really seem worthy when she takes the time to think about them these days. "One night, Frank came home after a night at the bar and it was . . .particularly bad, more than usual. Noah couldn't take it anymore, I had no idea that he even knew what was going on in the first place but he did, and he called them. Something I could never do. There's a lot of reasons for that, none that I can particularly stand for now, though," she admits without hesitance, trying to sound casual and calm. Inside though, her heart beats wildly at the memory and her mouth goes dry. She doesn't want to talk about this.

"I had no idea," Santana speaks finally, not looking at her and Anne sighs. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Though, secretly, she wonders whether a person like Santana is really capable of feeling that kind of sympathy for another being. She's known the Latina long enough to realize that the answer to that is probably no.

"I guess you're gonna ask me to go to the police too," Santana huffs, gazing fixedly at the wall.

"I probably should, shouldn't I?" Anne responds, non-committed. It would be the responsible thing to do, after all, but she also knows that there are a lot of obstacles in the way of that, not least of which is the obvious fact that the girl does not _want_ to go to the police. Though, Anne cares less about that and more about other things. She remembers the fact that the police had done nothing for her when Noah had called them, as Frank had been a persuasive talker, but it had at least made her husband uneasy enough to pack his bags and leave. Although the system's getting better, though, she knows it may still not be enough to help Santana. She's heard rumours about Garry Goodman and by now has a pretty good idea of who he is – a dangerous man with more allies in the police than Anne can stand to count. Dragging him to court, where this thing would be sure to end up, would not only be difficult but could also end in disaster. On some level, Anne thinks Santana knows this too but will never admit it to herself – it's easier to think you have a way out, a weapon, even if you'll never use it then to realize that you really are, well and truly, trapped. She doesn't want to put Santana through all that, only to have it be a waste of time. She's unfair but she's not cruel. "But I have this firm belief that it needs to be something you decide. I left it to Noah to make that decision for me and I've hated myself every day for it since. Not just because I put my son through that but because I will never get a chance to execute that control over Frank that I would have had if I'd made that call, I'll never be able to stand up to him." Anne gazes at the marks on Santana's back and sighs, feeling the Latina stiffen in disbelief beneath her fingers. She thinks that, in a perfect world, any adult who found out such a thing as she has would race to the police station and spill the news, strive endlessly to have the whole mess righted out. But this is not a perfect world and Anne is not one of those adults, no matter how much she knows she should be. "I also know what it is to be proud and to be afraid of losing an image that you've carefully constructed. So, no, I won't go to the police but I do ask that you think about doing it yourself. And, of course, there are conditions."

"Of course there are," Santana mutters to herself, receiving a light reprimanding smack on the arm. She goes quiet but there remains a defiant glint in her eye that Anne can't say she is not satisfied to see.

"You'll be welcome here whenever you want, and, yes, that is a firm suggestion that you actually come here when you're in trouble, preferably before the trouble starts as opposed to after, like now. Not that you've really ever needed an invitation before," she murmurs the last part to herself, remembering with exasperation the many times she's caught Santana sneaking out of her son's room. She makes a mental note to herself about doing something about that later; putting it right beside the twenty other ones she filed away over the past year or so. She already knows that there's nothing she can do, something that's very hard to accept for not only a mother but someone as strong willed as she. "I want you to start taking lessons from me on first aid, as well, just in case. The last thing we need is you nearly bleeding to death like tonight." Santana looks away, dark hair falling over her back and Anne remembers another girl, smaller in stature, and with a personality that was the polar opposite. Billy Lopez is four years younger than Anne, and most of what she knew about her as a teenager came from the mouth of her younger brother who was in her year. But she remembers seeing her occasionally, noticing how shy she was . . . and the way she kept back from other people. In that last sense, Anne could see a resemblance between mother and daughter.

She also remembers, at the age of eleven, coming across Billy's father and how the man had grimaced down at her and called her a disgusting Jew. His seven-year-old daughter had ducked her head, hiding her eyes and blushing – out of shame, perhaps? Anne never found out but she can still remember the sight of that timid girl and finds it hard to reconcile with the picture of the woman who she knows today.

She knows that falling pregnant at sixteen morphed Billy into a mere excuse for a shadow of what she once was but she sees the tribulations of that as no excuse for what she has become. As a mother, Anne has always tried to put her children first, no matter what, and as mother she cannot understand how, time after time, Billy Lopez has failed to do the same.

It's amazing to think just how much someone can change.

"And I want you to see a councillor at the school." Anne holds no belief that Santana will actually reveal anything to that stick figure of woman they call Emma Pilsbury but she knows that the girl is not in a good place right now, in any aspect of her life, and that there are other things she can talk to the redhead about and get some help for. She also secretly hopes Pilsbury might pick up on something and take the impossible task of handling this situation by herself way from Anne. She doesn't bet on it, though.

. . .

Quinn sighs as she watches Puck with his back against the wall, arms folded. She hasn't gone to bed like she was told, already knowing that she wouldn't be able to get any sleep with everything that was going on. She needs to do something, something more than has already been done. And she knows what it is.

"We should call B," she says, already reaching for her cell phone. She's calmed down a bit since her fight with Finn and already feels guilty for revealing Santana's secret to him; at least she knows he'll be too scared of them to tell anyone about it. It's not like they told him everything, just enough to satisfy his curiosity and convince him that barging in on Santana to apologise was _not_ a good idea. She also feels bad for putting all this on him but she can't help it. If Santana had just stayed the night at his place none of this would have happened.

She can't just let that go.

She's opening up her phone when Puck's hand closes over her wrist, halting the action. "Not really a good idea, Quinn."

"What do you mean?" she asks, not expecting this. "She's Santana's best friend; she should know what's going on right now."

"And what exactly is she going to do about it? She's in fucking Holland, Quinn, there's nothing she _can_ do," he responds, earning a scowl from the blonde that quickly turns into a helpless frown.

"I don't know. Um . . . she could just . . . _talk_ to her," she tries, trying to think of, if she was Santana, what she would want right now. She would want the company of her best friend, definitely, she would want to be comforted by a person she knows loves her more than anything else. "She could just talk to her."

Puck thinks about this for a moment, face creased in a frown, and the warmth of his hand still clasped around her wrist reaches burning point. She wants to pull away from his grasp but at the same time doesn't. "Call her up tomorrow. At least by then Santana will have pulled herself together enough to talk to her."

"What do you mean: 'pull herself together'? Santana shouldn't have to pull herself together to talk to her best friend," Quinn protests.

"I know that," Puck snaps back in frustration. "But that doesn't change the fact that Santana has a habit of saying things she regrets when her life is in a shit storm. Things that could hurt Brittany."

She hates to admit it but he's right. Santana would never hurt Brittany if she had anything to say about it, not intentionally at least, but she did have a way of _un_intentionally doing things. Quinn does, after all, remember the birthday incident from a few weeks ago. But right now, does that really matter? "She can take it," she says, feeling the need to point out this one small fact. Brittany may be all full of innocence and naïve, and Puck and Santana might feel the need to cushion her because of this – Quinn, too, on occasion – but this is bigger than that. Right now, Santana's needs far outweigh Brittany's own and she has a feeling that the other blonde would agree with her.

"I know," Puck says simply, not denying the fact. "But Santana couldn't."

And she knows what he means immediately and understands, even if she wishes she couldn't. It's not Brittany he's trying to protect but Santana who, while hardly one for guilt, would definitely feel guilty over blowing up at B. And that's the last thing she needs right now. Of course, they can't be completely sure that that is what will happen if they ring Brittany up but Quinn also doesn't know whether they can take the chance.

Quinn rubs her forehead with her free hand, hating this. What is she supposed to do? She wants so badly to help Santana right now but everything she thinks up seems wrong somehow.

Puck sighs, noting her distress, and his grip on her hand turns light. One of his fingers rubs soothingly against her skin. "Look, just leave it 'till tomorrow. It's like 3:25am now, anyway. And, besides, knowing Britt, she's probably already sent Santana like a dozen text messages so this whole conversation was probably pointless."

Quinn nods, conceding to that point, but inside she feels sick and she knows it's not from Beth. How do you help someone when words are your only tool but your tongue is tied?

.. .

Santana cringes away from Mrs. Puckerman's words; the very idea of pouring out her _feelings_ to that messed up little redhead who thinks she knows best makes her want to be sick. She doesn't want a shrink, someone to sit around and constantly repeat the question – 'And how does that make you feel?' – because for some reason or another they think they can actually _understand_ just how it makes her feel. Santana doesn't even know exactly how this whole thing makes her feel so how could somebody, somebody who doesn't know shit about what she's going through, know instead?

Does Pilsbury know what it's like to live everyday in fear of your own home, even whilst constantly trying to deny the fact to yourself that he could ever have that much power over you? Has she felt the bruises and the aching jaw, seen the smudges of blood on your sheets and in between your thighs that for once isn't the result of a period? Does she understand the need to pretend to be somebody, _anybody_ else, just to escape the reality that your life has become?

If the answer is no, then how could she possibly even begin to understand or help.

Angry – that's how this all makes her feel, so fucking angry that she can hardly breathe.

Santana remembers sitting in her guidance councillor's office at school, whilst she was still in elementary, and listening to the questions the old woman rattled off. She'd just returned after a weeklong suspension for fighting – the boy had ended up in the hospital – and the principal had decided that it would be a requirement for her to be assessed by the school's councillor, just to try and figure out why a young girl like herself would ever think of harming another human being.

She doesn't remember much about those sessions but what she does remember is sitting there, silently rooted, as her heart pleaded for the woman to figure it out, to understand. She wanted help, she wanted is so bad that she ached for it at every moment and tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

But she never said a word and the councillor never figured it out.

If Santana's still feels the need, that unstoppable desire for help, it's hidden beneath layers upon layers of denial and bitterness. If she ever realises it exists, she'll trample it and try to destroy it so fiercely that no-one will ever be able to realize it was there in the first place, not even her.

If she comprehends that this is only working in Garry's favour and that all she's really doing is helping him it doesn't show and the thought never really lingers in her mind long enough to be seriously mulled over. It's just another thing that she likes to pretend doesn't exist, so much so that it's almost not really pretending anymore but the truth.

"To hell with that," Santana mutters, momentarily forgetting the fact that Mrs. Puckerman is being exceptionally generous in deciding not to tell the police and that she should probably just agree to everything she says. "I don't want some shrink fucking poking around my head trying to figure me out." Especially not that one – Santana has an aversion to redheads.

Anne shakes her head. "You'll do what I say if you want your secret to remain a secret. I'm not telling you to talk about this, talk about whatever you want; hell, discuss how annoyed you are with my son for going after everything that moves. I really don't care. But just _talk_." Her mouths smooths into a thin line and she reaches into the first aid kit for the materials she'll need to stitch up the wound. "It shouldn't be too hard for you – you do have a mouth, after all."

Santana doesn't answer and rests her chin on her knees, which are tucked up against her chest. She doesn't want to talk to Pilsbury, secretly afraid that if she starts she won't be able to stop and she'll let something slip, something catastrophic. She can't do it.

Mrs. Puckerman sighs as if reading her thoughts and places an uncharacteristically gentle hand on her shoulder. Santana flinches away. "You might want to deny it, Santana, but this is impacting all areas of your life – It can't not. I know it, you know it –even if you don't want to admit it. It's not pretty but that's the way things are. You can either accept the fact and learn to live with it or go on denying it and pretending that you're fine. But I'll warn you that pretending can only last for so long, and sometimes the results of that can be worse than the actual problem."

She hates the fact that Puck's mother can so easily get into her head and figure her out. She hates the woman's words and the truth behind them even more.

What Garry's doing to her, it hasn't changed her. She is who she is because she chose to be that way. She's not a victim, she's not something moulded by circumstance; she's Santana. She has to be.

Regardless, the sixteen-year-old finds herself nodding along anyway, if only to get the mother off her back. She'll go to Pilsbury, convince her that she's fine – which she is – and that they don't need to have anymore sessions and that'll be that. Easy. "Fine."

"Alright. Good girl," Mrs. Puckerman says calmly, leaning in closer to take a better look at the mark on the Latina's back. "I'm afraid this is going to scar, Santana. Nothing to do about that. And it is going to need stitches."

Santana barely hears her. It's ridiculous at a time like this but she's thinking about how she'll ever be able to sleep with somebody ever again, with this shining beacon on her back. How could she ever explain the brand that her stepfather's left on her skin? How would she deal with the curious looks of the person she's trying to fuck?

Hell, she won't even be able to wear a fucking bikini anymore.

Again, Santana wants to be sick.

She understands now why Garry did this, why he wanted to. She's his, only his, and he wants the whole world to know, more specifically he wants _her_ to know. That's all she is, some drunken bastard's property.

She grinds her teeth together and clenches her fists.

This is just another thing he's taken away from her: the one area of her life that she could exude _some_ control. And it's all gone.

She pulls into herself, the helplessness and rage washing over her.

All gone.

"I'm afraid I don't have anything for the pain so you're just going to have to grin and bear it," the older woman informs her, tone brisk. "I'll try to be quick."

The needle digs into her skin, causing her body to erupt in a multitude of pain and tension, but Santana hardly notices. She can't feel a thing.

. . .

_"Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it."_

— _J.K. Rowling (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire)_


	6. Let's Play Pretend

_**A/N: I'm really sorry about the late update but I've been swamped with homework, especially since exams will be here in a few weeks (so I probably won't be updating regularly). Oh, how I long for the days before year seven when exams and assignments didn't exist. **_

_**Again, I want to thank everyone who reviewed, and I also want to thank those who didn't for just reading this story and giving it a chance. I hope you enjoy!**_

_**. . . **_

"_I and the public know what all school children learn, those to whom evil is done do evil in return."_

_- W.H. Auden _

Anne makes her way towards the lounge room, intent on checking on her son and making sure that he's managed to get rid of that duck. Her mind thinks over the last conversation she had with Santana about how the girl was going to have to stay here, home from school, for at least the next two days, receiving only monotonous one word answers in response. At the time, she was just happy that the Latina wasn't giving her any more trouble but now she wonders whether that's such a good thing. She knows Santana and she knows that she likes nothing better than to put up a fight.

It's disconcerting to see that passion gone.

_FLASHBACK_

"_Who knows?" Anne asks as she cuts off the loose thread from the finished sutures. It's over now and yet she's still waiting for the Latina to break down in a sobbing mess, though she knows instinctively that Santana would never do this._

"_Just you guys. Though, I sure as hell didn't tell anyone so I'm not sure how that worked out," the sixteen-year-old grumbles, turning around to face her again. Mrs. Puckerman takes in the pasty, pale face and the lifelessly blank eyes and withholds a sigh. _

"_Does Brittany know?" Even before the question's out of her mouth, Anne knows the answer. She had to ask anyway. _

_Santana gives her a look like she's trying to work out whether her friend's mum is crazy but can't really be bothered putting in the extra effort to take the time to really figure it out. "Why would I tell Brittany about this? I could never do that to her."_

_Anne frowns. She can already tell that this state of mind is going to lead to no good. She's met Brittany before, she knows the girl has a slightly childish view of the world, but in this the mother can't help but think that Santana has underestimated her friend's ability to cope with things. Anne thinks that, for Santana, Brittany could cope with anything. "Santana, she's your best friend, and not only do you deserve her support in this but I think she also deserves the truth, something that I know you're not accustomed to giving – on anything."_

"_She doesn't need to know. And I don't need her to know. It's not like she could really do anything."_

"_I know how close the two of you are. Not only have I seen the two of you together but I've also stolen my son's phone and checked his text messages enough times to know _just_ how close you are." Anne nearly cringes at the memory of those incidents – there are just some things you never wish to know about your son's and your son's friends' lives. It's surprising just how many 'some things' there are, actually. She could certainly have done without knowing that her sixteen-year-old son still didn't know how to spell the word 'because'._

_Santana doesn't even blush. "I need to protect her." The words: 'I need to be brave', are left off but are easily implied. Mrs. Puckerman knows her well enough to know it's a reason. "And, besides, I'm fine. I don't want anyone else to know."_

_Anne wants to tell her that there's no use in being brave if you're no longer alive to feel accomplished over the fact. Santana stares back at her with hollow eyes, her gaze saying that she knows this just as well as her but has long since ceased to care. She'll die with her dignity, Mrs. Puckerman can tell that much, she'll die with her determination to remain untouchable and strong. What Anne can't tell is when. Perhaps, that's better left to the imagination in the end._

_END FLASHBACK_

She finds Noah sprawled out on a lumpy mattress on the floor, eyes open and staring up at the ceiling. There's an uncharacteristically worried expression on his face and Anne withholds a sigh. He's grown up so much recently, what with the baby drama and now this. Even before that, she knows he started to lose a little bit of the naivety that she had loved about him the night he called the police on his own father.

He hides it well, perhaps too well. Just like Santana.

She remembers the two little children who spent hours in the backyard, just running around and having fun. She remembers the fake wedding ceremony when they were in kindergarten that she had to sit through and the unwilling smile that tugged at her lips as Noah placed a sloppy childish kiss on Santana's mouth only to get a slap in return. She recalls the endless hours of listening to her son prattle on about how he was going to marry his SanSan one day and they were going to have a big white house with a games room and little boys . . . and she wonders when the dreams disappeared.

She was always horrified by the fact that her son was so obviously smitten by the Lopez girl, who she never really liked, but secretly she always put a little money away for the wedding she admitted would probably one day take place. There's probably about one and a half thousand dollars hidden away in a shoe box in her bottom drawer and although she knows now that no such wedding will ever happen and is rather relieved by the fact, she still can't bring herself to touch it.

She's not sure whether it's the dream she's afraid of pulling apart or the memory of their innocence. Either way, both things sound fairly undesirable.

Now, Anne's being forced to watch as one child suffers and the other tries to make it through the pain of preparing oneself to lose their own child. She watches them and she feels exhausted, unable to comprehend how things turned out like this. She didn't want Noah and Santana to end up together but, at the same time, she hadn't detested the idea either. It'll never happen now, she knows. Noah's already falling for a girl completely different – one who Anne likes even less than Santana, he'll try to deny it but she can see, and Santana's . . . well, she's Santana.

Sadly, Ms. Puckerman doesn't see any wedding bells in the future for that particular girl. She has seen the way the brunette looks at that blonde girl, Brittany Pierce, though, on the rare occasion that the both of them come over at the same time. It's not a look of love, though Anne can't be sure that that doesn't exist either, but one of . . . hope. And that's perhaps even more beautiful. Or devastating, depending on how things turn out.

This time she does sigh.

Noah looks over, slightly surprised, but his features relax the moment he catches sight of her. Sluggishly and tiredly, he pulls himself into a sitting position, face unusually attentive. "Hey."

"Hey, honey," she greets in a sigh, walking over and crouching down on the ground beside him. Her knees quake at the action, no longer as young as they used to be, and she resists the urge to groan.

"So . . .how's she doing?" he asks finally, almost looking afraid of the answer.

"As well as can be expected, I guess. Still stubborn, in some ways," Anne informs him. "It wasn't easy laying down the ground rules I set out for her. She just doesn't want to listen."

"Yeah, well . . . that's SanSan for you," Noah responds with a slight smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Anne's own ones soften. "You realize that's the first time you've called her that in . . . I don't know how many years?"

He looks suddenly bashful, almost as though he's embarrassed to be caught showing any kind of affection for Santana. Again, she remembers a time when that wouldn't have been the case. "Yeah, I know . . . But she's not really SanSan anymore, you know. I mean-"

"I know what you mean," Anne silences him calmly, smoothing back his nonexistent hair in understanding.

They both go silent, Noah looking thoughtful and Anne looking sad. She doesn't like to see her son like this, without the carefree personality that she's grown accustomed to. After all, this is the boy who believes that Mario Bros. seriously changed the world, even more than the 70s did.

"You know, don't you?"

She doesn't need for him to elaborate to know what he's talking about and she breathes out, wondering how best to handle this topic. "Yes."

He doesn't seem surprised which works against her earlier theory of him thinking she knows nothing about his life. Maybe he does know she isn't as oblivious as he would like to think, but he pretends otherwise. Just like she often pretends that she lives the perfect 'American Dream', and Santana pretends that there's not a hell waiting to swallow her whole when she goes home, and Quinn pretends that she's still the perfect Christian girl who could never cheat on the boy she loved and be abandoned by her own parents. She supposes they've all got a lot of reality to face when it comes down to it. "How long?"

"Long enough." Long enough to know that this situation is completely messed up. Long enough to know that by now she should have done something about it but hasn't. Long enough to know that maybe there isn't anything she _can_ do. Long enough to know that she should try, anyway.

And long enough to know she won't.

"Are you going to tell?"

Anne wonders whether, deep down, he wants her to. She knows that Santana would have made him promise or something similar to keep this whole thing quiet but maybe he wants, just like her, for someone else to take the situation out of his hands and deal with it like it should be dealt with. The only problem is: that neither of them can quite work out exactly which 'should be' is the right one. "No."

"Quinn's not happy. She thinks he's going to kill her," he says quietly after a moment; there's no need to ask who 'he' is. They both know well enough, even if they wish they didn't.

She stays silent, not saying a word, and smooths a hand over his head again; so soft, but not as soft as she remembers.

Noah stares at her in disbelief. "You agree with her." It's not a question and Anne lets out a breath, eyes hardening considerably.

"On the contrary, I think _she's_ going to kill _him_."

He goes quiet again, face as hard as her eyes, and she wonders whether she wants to know what he's thinking. What mother really, truly, wants to know what's going on inside their child's head? The idea might sound inviting at first, to know just why they're acting so damn impossible, but then you begin to realize that maybe, even if you knew, you wouldn't be able to understand. Worse, you might never be able to look at them the same way again.

"Even better," he grinds out finally, face a scowl. "The fucker deserves it. I'd do it myself if Quinn hadn't already threatened to chop off my you-know-what if I did."

"Language, Noah," Anne reprimands lightly, knowing it will do no good. "And, no, that's not better. The consequences of such a thing would be . . ." She can't even find the words. "Well, let's just say they're best not to think about."

"You mean, if she went to jail?"

"Well, yes, but also emotionally. Doing something like that, it's not as simple as it sounds, whatever the circumstances. Your Aunt Jackie shot an intruder several years ago after he broke into her house and tried to attack her daughter, you remember. She's _still_ in therapy. It's not _who _you kill, Noah, it's the fact that you _have_ killed," she whispers, smiling sadly. "I don't think there's any coming back from that."

Noah returns the smile, albeit grimly. "Yeah, well, I don't think it matters much. No matter what she does, she's still probably goin' ta be in therapy until she's fifty." He pauses. "I don't think she'll do it, anyway: she's smart."

Anne shakes her head at his innocence and sighs. He doesn't understand, but she can't really expect him to either. He hasn't lived through the experience of being completely and utterly helpless at the hands of another human being, to be treated as nothing short of an animal. He doesn't know what it is to have no control. "It doesn't work like that, Noah. 'Smart' has nothing to do with it. It's all about emotion. There's this feeling that you get, Noah, that's worse than rage. Not everyone has it. But I had it and I know Santana has it. It's a kind of hatred, so intense and so powerful that it can consume a person and block out everything else. Fear, joy . . . even love." She's never had such an honest conversation with her son in the entirety of his life, and she's certainly never discussed things like this with him. She's never really discussed what happened with his father, either, and wonders whether that was a mistake. She thinks it might have been but, even if she did go back in time to change things, she's not sure whether she would have the strength to do any different.

Anne realizes the hypocrisy of the situation: she wants Santana to tell her best friend about what's going on when she, a grown woman, can't even bring herself to discuss the subject of his father with her son. She wouldn't blame Santana for not following her advice.

"How do you get rid of it?"

"I don't know. For me, it was your father leaving." It's the closest she thinks she'll ever come to bringing up the subject. Though, truthfully, she sometimes wonders whether that rage ever did leave her and whether, maybe, she's just fooling herself. Worse, there are times when she finds herself almost missing Frank, something that she will never and can never admit to anyone.

Sometimes, Anne wavers over a piece of paper, halfway through signing her name, and wonders why Puckerman is still the surname she'll be putting down. It's Frank's last name, and she wants nothing more to do with him, but she still can't bring herself to have it changed. She tells herself it's for Noah's and Liv's sakes, that the last thing they need is for their last name to suddenly change on them, especially since Liv still has that perfect fantasy about the father she can't really remember being a superhero of some kind. Deep down, she knows, though, that it's because she still loves him that she keeps his name, the reason why she never did anything when the beatings started. And he'll always have that hold over her

"But for Santana . . . I don't know. She wants revenge, I can tell," she finishes finally.

The room falls into silence again as they ponder that and Anne sighs. The girl _should _want revenge, she'd be a damn saint if she didn't and, well, Anne has never thought much of saints (she always looks like such a demon next to them). She wants revenge so she should take it. But the woman knows it's not that simple, it never is, and as she has just explained to her son: there are always consequences to these kinds of things; some of them you never see at all until it's too late.

She remembers waiting on the couch in the lounge room for her husband to come home, gun poised at the ready in her hand. She was so ready to do it then, completely prepared, but at the last minute it was her love for Frank that stopped her. She wonders what would have happened if that love didn't exist.

"I'm keeping Santana home from school for the next couple of days, so you're going to have to come up with some excuse to tell people," Anne informed him. She would have to ring up Principal Figgins but he seems gullible enough to believe a case of the common flu, teenagers on the other hand . . .

Well, they're like bloodthirsty bloodhounds on a scent, aren't they? Eagerly searching for any new trace of scandal.

Noah thinks about it for a moment before a figurative light bulb seems to go off in his head. "She contracted an S.T.I?" Anne smacks her son across the head and he looks at her, wounded. "Hey, it's believable."

. . .

Santana's just slipping on one of Puck's old T-Shirts – her own clothes are pretty much ruined so she won't be wearing them again anytime soon –, still hiding away in the bathroom though she refuses to call it hiding, when the knock on the door comes. She knows it's not Mrs. P because she wouldn't give a crap about knocking if she wanted to come in bad enough and it's not Puck because, well, he's just too impatient to knock and withhold from barging in (mostly because he still harbours the memory of bursting in on her naked, fresh from the shower, when they were fourteen). So it has to be Quinn, or Liv. But she knows Liv doesn't bother to knock either, which is a constant source of complaint for Puck. Santana's answer to this is always: 'Yeah, and who do you think she got the habit from?' He usually just grumbles in response.

"S, it's me, Quinn," the blonde calls out from behind the door. "Can I come in?"

Santana heaves a sigh and raises her eyes skyward in a silent plea for help though she knows no-one is listening. "No. But I doubt you really care what I say anyway, so come on in."

She glances at herself momentarily in the mirror, just to see how presentable she looks. Her hair's still damp and frizzy from the shower and the bruises are frustratingly still clearly evident on her face and, when she looks down, she can see a few more peppering her legs, running up her thighs. She sighs. Puck's shirt, while big and baggy, does little to hide her over all state.

This is why she either stays at her place or goes to Brittany – who, whilst does ask the occasional question, mostly just snuggles with her and mutters something about protecting her from the bad monster. She cringes at the memory of Britt, the thought only making her want the blonde more than she already does_. _

She groans, almost able to imagine the concerned and slightly clueless smile her friend would get on her face as she moved into hug her, trying to offer a comfort that is completely foreign to Santana outside of her relationship with Brittany herself.

_Don't think about B._

The door opens and Quinn steps in, looking nervous. Her baby bump protrudes so dramatically from her once tiny waist that Santana has to crinkle her nose in disgust. God forbid that she ever lets something like that happen to her. At least bruises heal but she can already see it being a bitch to work off that baby weight once the brat pops out.

She crosses her arms and gazes down at the blonde, or at least she tries to – Quinn's a good few inches taller than her due to the stupid growth hormones that somehow skipped her over during puberty. At least she's not a midget like Rachael, though she can't help but think that Brittany could be nice and donate a few inches of her own height to her best friend.

Quinn opens her mouth to speak but pauses, suddenly unsure. Santana wishes she had her customary nail file to distract herself because, seriously, a conversation with a highly emotional Quinn is the last thing she wants right now. What if the blonde bursts into tears? Again.

The Latina doesn't do that mushy, emotional crap, _ever_. Well, except for with Brittany. But that's different. It always is.

_Brittany._

It's pathetic how much she needs the blonde right now. No, not needs, _wants_. Santana doesn't _need_ anyone. She nods to herself slightly, convincing herself of this. She can't need anyone.

. . .

Quinn sighs, gazing at the brunette in front of her, wondering how their friendship has come to this. They aren't friends anymore, though, really; Quinn's not too sure what they are. Not enemies, not acquaintances, but friends don't look at each other with the look Santana's sending her right now: one of extreme distrust and slight disgust.

They also actually know what's been going on in their friend's life, something Quinn has failed to achieve until recently and she can't even take credit for that because Puck was the one who spilled the beans. She wonders whether there were signs, ones she could have seen when they were friends but missed. There must have been, something like this can't just happen without evidence to reflect off it – a tornado sweeps through a town and there's always a rocky pile of devastation to see. But she supposes that, even if there were signs, Quinn wouldn't have noticed them anyway. She knows she used to be selfish and, in spite of Beth, still can be and usually the only things she would pay attention to had to have something to do with _her_.

She remembers a time in fourth grade when they were sitting around the playground and playing truth or dare. Santana had said something but what? Something about kisses. The blonde hadn't really been listening, too busy thinking about the pink dress her daddy was going to get her after school. The memory brushes at Quinn's mind, seemingly important, though she can't work out why. That was long before Garry ever showed up so it couldn't have anything to do with this . . . why then does it keep nagging at her?

It feels like a dream, an important one that she's woken up from in the morning, blurry-eyed, and has to strain to remember. Like most dreams, though, it's already faded into the recesses of her mind. She can't bring it back up.

Maybe things are better off that way.

She ignores it and instead does something that she'll probably regret later, something completely and undeniably insane. It's quite possibly the craziest things she's ever done or ever could do – and that includes cheating on Finn and sleeping with Puck – but she does it anyway.

Her feet step impulsively forward and her arms wrap tightly around the shorter girl in front of her. The brunette stiffens at the action but Quinn chooses not to care, burying her head in the girl's shoulder and closing her eyes, trying to recapture some semblance of their friendship. She's careful not to touch the wound on Santana's back but doesn't resist from holding her closer when the other girl tries to escape.

"I promise," she breathes, not bothering to elaborate on what she's promising: to be a better friend from now on; to help her . . . to keep all this a secret? Quinn promises all of those things.

…

Santana wants to run. She's suffocating in the blonde's firm grip, panicking from the closeness. She's not opposed to hugging Quinn, per sae – she's done it before back when they were friends – but she's never liked being touché feely after an episode with Garry, except for with Brittany.

She can feel the blonde's uncomfortably protruding belly against her own stomach and she wonders vaguely whether they're crushing the baby. It's weird and actually kind of disturbing. Seriously, Santana won't be held responsible for smooshing a baby. Her life really can't handle that kind of extra emotional baggage right now.

She can't escape, though; Quinn's holding her so tightly that it's a wonder she can still breathe and, after a moment, she realizes that she no longer wants to. She sees the other girl's blonde hair and remembers another, slightly taller blonde, who would hug her as well. She can feel Brittany's body wrapped around her, the warm breath on her neck and the whispers of comfort the girl would mutter. Santana closes her eyes, drinking up the illusion and trying, with everything she has, to remain in it.

She lives for pretending, after all, so this is nothing new.

But then Quinn's voice cuts in, different from the monotone of her best friend, and the fantasy shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. "I promise." It's not Brittany holding her, it's not Brittany at all but the girl who used to be Santana's friend but is now something closer to a stranger.

Santana pulls back and this time Quinn lets her, the two of them avoiding eye contact. "Thanks," the Latina mutters after a pause, recalling the other girl's words. She doesn't have to ask what the blonde is promising – there's really only one thing that could be of any consequence to Santana – and she's grateful for it. But 'thanks' is all she can get out in the end to show for it.

She thinks Quinn understands.

. . .

Santana sighs as she makes her way into Liv Puckerman's bedroom, cell phone in hand – she had to send Puck out to get it from her car since there was no way in hell she was ever going to step out onto the streets with just his shirt on – and opens up to her message bank. Her dark eyes scan the screen with the faintest traces of hope, scrolling down through the messages. There's a few from some Cheerios asking her whether she's going to the latest party on Friday and the like – though she can't recall ever having spoken to any of them before, well, unless you count shouting – and a couple from boys, mostly asking her, in the most subtle (for them) way they can manage, for a quick fuck. There's a sweet little message from Jordon Goody, a freshman boy who's taken to following her around this year and leaving flowers in her locker – though how he got her locker combination she has no idea – and she smiles slightly at that one, taking a short break in her searching to read it through. Santana doesn't have much toleration for sappiness or people stalking her – though that can be flattering in a weird demented sort of way – but she kind of thinks Jordon is cute, sort of in the way Brittany manages to be 24/7. She even gave him a rewarding kiss on the cheek for the last box of chocolates he gave her; it helped that they were the expensive kind.

Santana pauses momentarily as she wonders what Jordon would think of her if he knew the truth about her life. She imagines that the flowers and the boxes of chocolates would be quick to disappear, to be replaced by distance and awkwardness. He only likes her because she's the hot Head Cheerio with the perfect image who's actually said 'Hi' to him on one occasion. She's his teenage wet dream.

It's just the idea of her he likes and she's sure that's true for most who know her. Not that she cares.

Santana sighs once more and continues on with her searching, passing over a text message from Matt asking her to skip and come and join him and his family in wherever the hell they are – at least, she assumes this is what it says since she doesn't actually look at it but he _has_ already sent her five other ones saying that exact thing so she's pretty certain.

There are no messages from Brittany.

"San?" a soft voices asks from a distance away and Santana glances up sharply to see little Liv staring at her groggily from her bed. She's sitting up slightly and blinking sleepily at her, trying to bring the room into focus. "What're you doing?"

Santana's not surprised when the girl doesn't ask what she's doing _here_; she's probably gotten used to her unexpected visits by now since the Latina has made a habit of sneaking in and out of the Puckerman's household for late night dirty deeds (of course, Liv doesn't know that last part of the equation; thank god).

"Just checking my messages," she says, holding up her cell phone to indicate. "Did I wake you?"

Liv shakes her head, no, but it's obviously a lie and Santana smiles apologetically. "Can I look?" the girl asks, holding out her hand for the phone. "Mum says I'm not allowed to have one 'till I'm fifty so I'm feeling kind of deprived." She wonders how an eight-year-old girl even knows the word deprived and can't help but think that this must be evidence that Liv's not really related to Puck. If she is, then the brain cells in the family certainly skipped him over.

The brunette nods and heads over to the bed, sitting down and handing the phone over. It's not like she has any more use for it now. Brittany obviously hasn't thought of calling her – not that she has any right to be angry about that; just because she's having a terrible time doesn't mean that she should expect the blonde to somehow sense it whilst not even in the same country – and she has no desire to call Matt, the boys or any of those Cheerio's back. Especially since she's pretty convinced more than a few of them might be stalkers.

Liv bites her lip, reading one of the messages in her inbox and just when Santana's starting to think that maybe she should have directed the young girl to the Games page, she speaks up. "What's a BJ?"

Alarmed, Santana snatches the phone back and, sure enough, when she looks at the message 'BJ' is one of the words. Oh, and, surprise, surprise, it's from Puck, sent to her from over a week ago. She really needs to get started on deleting some of these old messages. "Ask your brother. I'm sure he'd know."

Liv nods to herself, no doubt filing this away for future reference, and looks up at Santana, for the first time really taking her in. "Your face is all purple-y. It's kind of ugly."

All the Latina can do is stare at her for a moment, for once being reminded of the fact that this is indeed Puck's little sister and that she has no doubt picked up a few things from him over the years. His total lack of suave being one of them (even if he does still think he's the most charming thing to hit earth since Rhett Butler). "Gee, thanks kiddo. And it's just face-paint."

"Face-paint?"

"Mm. We were dressing up earlier." She smirks suddenly, a thought occurring to her as she tries to push back the memories of what really happened that night. She only slightly succeeds. "You're brother was a fairy princess." So she's not the best of friends but she's never claimed to be either.

Liv doesn't smile. "Mum used to wear face-paint, too. Only she did it for hospital fundraisers. I didn't like it." She holds the other girl's gaze and for someone so young she seems surprisingly firm and serious. "Don't wear face-paint again, OK, Santa?"

Santana cringes at the nickname – Puck's doing (first he teaches his baby sis to call her Santa and then he trains her duck to answer to Satan Jr.; unbelievable). After all, does she look like a big fat man with a beard dressed up in red? Well, OK, she wears red to school every day but she's fairly certain she's not a man or fat. And she definitely doesn't have a beard. "I'll see what I can do," the Latina says finally, knowing that she can't promise what Liv is asking. Sighing, she runs a hand through the little girl's hair, wondering just how much she might know about her mother's and Santana's secrets. Certainly, nobody's told her – who would? – and Santana finds it hard to believe that an eight-year-old could pick up on something like this. No, she's probably just being overly intuitive and sensing that everything's not alright, that something _is_ wrong. Kids are pretty good at that; Brittany is and she's a bigger kid than most. "So what d'yah think about sharing your bed with me tonight? You mind?"

Liv shakes her head, no, and turns away from Santana's hand. "On two conditions, though."

Santana raises an eyebrow but nods her head, wondering what it is with these Puckerman women and conditions. "Right."

"One," the girl holds up one tiny finger to indicate. "I get to keep Satan Jr."

"What?"

Liv sighs and leans over to her bedside table which, Santana now realizes, is open and gestures to what's within. Brow furrowed, the brunette follows her gaze and finds the top drawer filled with old blankets and material, and, dozing peacefully in one corner, is Ballad. Santana can't help but shiver at the sight of the slight blood-stains on his feathers and wonders how Liv explained them to herself or what Puck and Quinn told her about them. Has she noticed? Does she pretend that they're not there? "Isn't he cute?" the little girl exclaims with a beam. "Puck gave him to me but I'm not allowed to tell Mum. So, can I keep him? He really likes me."

Too dazed and exhausted by the night's events, Santana can only sigh and try to work up a response. She forgot that she brought that little devil along with her. "I'll let you rassle it out with B. She's definitely going to fight you for him."

To be honest, she's not that fussed about the whole thing, mostly because she thinks she's about to drop from exhaustion. A part of Santana thinks, though, that the duck would be a lot safer in the Puckerman's house than he could ever be in her own. She guesses that she and the duck have something in common after all then, besides totally unflattering nicknames.

Liv nods to herself, leans down to kiss the duckling on the head, before settling herself back under the covers. "Second." Another finger rises imperiously and Santana rolls her eyes, trying to ignore the ache in her back that hasn't gone away. For a while, it didn't hurt at all, almost like there had been so much pain that eventually her body just had to block it out, but around about twenty minutes ago it came back with a vengeance. She swallowed a few painkillers that had numbed it a bit but she can still feel it there, itching beneath the surface. It wants to be felt but she doesn't want to feel it. She can't ever let herself feel it. "We have to cuddle. It's very cold tonight and if you're going to sleep in here you may as well be good for something – like keeping me warm."

Santana raises an eyebrow but is too tired to protest. Besides, next to B, Liv Puckerman is probably the only person in the world she would agree to 'cuddle' with, simply because if anyone asked she could say the little girl held her at knife and therefore she had no choice in the matter. "Fine," she sighs, doing her best to ignore Liv's answering beam – though it does bring a slight smile to her face – and snuggling down beneath the covers and closing her eyes. Predictably, Puck's little sister scooches over and curls into the Latina's side, small arms wrapping around the larger girl's form and bringing her closer. Sighing as well, Liv rests her head on Santana's shoulder and, grudgingly, she reaches out an arm to wrap around the little girl.

She's not the cuddling type. But, reluctantly, she guesses that she does owe Liv something for invading her bed and waking her up in the middle of the night. It's not so bad.

"Santa?"

Santana groans but doesn't respond.

"What's scissoring?" the little asks curiously causing the brunette's eyes to snap open and bulge. This is so going to be Puck's fault – she can just tell.

"Jesus Christ, where do you get these things? Cause that sure as hell wasn't on my phone," she snaps, closing her eyelids once more and digging the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. She's so damn _tired_. Though, secretly, she's not so sure she wants to go to sleep, bad things happen when she goes to sleep. Grudgingly, Santana admits that bad things also happen when she's awake, too.

Liv takes a breath, preparing herself. "Puck and Quinn were talking last month about how you missed a Cheerio's practise and Coach S was really mad and so Quinn was worried about that but Puck said that you and Brittany were probably just scissoring . . . although, Quinn said that Brittany was actually at Cheerio's practise when she was watching so that's probably not true, but anyway, then I told him you can't use scissors for a verb and, besides, if you were using scissors, I don't see what that would have to do with you missing practise." She takes another breath in order to go on and Santana lets out another groan, wondering what she ever did to deserve this. "Then he said that it was too a verb, and the very best one as well, so then I asked my teacher at school but she just went really quiet and told me to finish my math and now I have to see the guidance councillor at school every week." Another breath. "So what is it?"

Santana takes a hand away and cracks one eye open to stare at Liv who is gazing at her expectantly. It's a wonder the girl hasn't suffocated after talking so long in such a rush with only minimal breathing; she and Berry would get along great. Santana is going to kill Puck. She sighs and remembers the particular practise Liv is talking about and how it hadn't been scissoring with Brittany that had called her away at all: Garry had shown up at school once it ended to take her home, regardless of the fact that she still had Cheerios to go to, and Santana had no other option but to comply and get in the car. She doesn't want to think about what came after that.

At least Puck's good for something – he covered for her with Quinn, although the way he did so and the fact that he eventually spilled the beans to the blonde in the end pretty much cancels that out. Bastard.

Sighing, Santana plays with a strand of Liv's hair, debating over what to say. "You're Rachael Berry incarnate, you know that?"

The little girl's face screws up in confusion as she tries to work out the meaning behind the sixteen-year-old's words. "Wait, is she that weird girl that was over here earlier this year?"

"Did she talk a lot about things you couldn't understand?"

"Mmhm."

"Yep, that's her." Santana closes her eyes once more and places a hand over Liv's own eyes in order to get her to do the same. "Now go to sleep, freak. It's almost morning and I wanzt ta get some shut-eye."

"But you still didn't answer my-"

"Shh," Santana scolds lightly, letting out a breath. "Sleep now. Talk later."

Liv grumbles but complies, burrowing back into the Latina's side and closing her eyes. Santana listens half-heartedly to the sound of the little girl's breathing as it evens out over time into sleep, wishing she could follow. It's not the aching in her back that's keeping her up but the knowledge that, as soon as she slips into dreamland, it won't be anything pleasant that greets her. She can already imagine the nightmares that will haunt her at every turn and the fact that Brittany isn't here to comfort her when that happens makes her feel cold.

She feels stupid for being afraid of such a stupid thing as sleeping but she can't help the acceleration of her heartbeat each time it looks like she's about to doze off. It's a built in reaction, borne of countless years of experience and memory in this area. Her body knows just as well as she does what lies behind the curtain of sleep that's threatening to engulf her.

But she's still so tired, too tired to stay awake. The darkness around her closes in, engulfing her in a thick blanket, and she shudders, turning over to bury her head in the crook of Liv's neck. The little girl doesn't wake but grabs at the material of Santana's loose shirt in sleep, clutching tight. Puck's little sister lets out a contented sigh and Santana wishes she could share in that emotion, could slip into the land of sleep and only have dreams and not nightmares.

But Santana hasn't dreamt since she was eight years old and she doesn't think that's about to change tonight.

Letting out a breath, she finally allows sleep to take her, unable to keep up the fight any longer.


	7. Trapped in a Nightmare: Part 1

_**A/N: Hey guys, the first thing I want to say is I'm so sorry for not updating sooner. Like I said in the last chapter, I did have exams so that was largely responsible for sucking up most of time. Unfortunately, the last two weeks everything has just been dumped on me. I was the sickest I've been in a while and I also, to top it off, had a needle damage a nerve in my hand so writing was not only painful but also a bad idea as the doctor said the only way it was going to get better was if I let it rest (kind of hard to do during exams so I decided to let it rest when it came to everything else including, unfortunately, this story). (sigh) That was a bad couple of weeks. But I've finished school and exams now, my hand is on the mend, and I hope to be updating a lot more frequently now. **_

_**Anyway, this chapter and the next were supposed to be one single one but they were proving to be too long so I decided to split them up. I'll be posting the next chapter within the next few days. Also, I have some semi-good news, whilst I can't bring Brittany back into Santana's life yet, I'm going to be writing a bit about what she's currently doing in the 9**__**th**__** chapter because I miss her too much to leave her out any longer.**_

_**I want to thank everyone who reviewed and I hope you all enjoy the chapter!**_

_**Oh, and Santana's nightmare is in italics and parts of it are made up of distorted memories whilst others are just her mind going rampant with things that have never happened. I'm not going to tell you which is which, though.**_

_**. . .**_

_**Warning: abuse & not-too-graphic rape but if that is a trigger for anyone than I recommend not to read the nightmare scenes**_

_**. . .**_

"Is there no way out of the mind?"

- Slyvia Plath

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

_It's the sound of old rain water, falling in intervals down from the roofs that line the alley way. The drops fall into a little creek making its way down one side of the alley, the steady sound of rushing water filling her ears and making them buzz. It's cold out and, feeling the icy wind whip about her, slapping her on the cheek almost, she pulls her jacket tighter around herself._

_She doesn't know where she is or where she's come from or even why she's here. At this moment, she doesn't even remember her own name. She just is. Everything is a swath of emotions and feelings and she burries herself in it._

_... _

_Santana, little and young, is huddled under the kitchen table, tiny fingers grasping the table legs as she trembles. Anger screams from every corner of the room and she hides away from the perpetrator – a middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes like coal. The sound of the fist rushing through the air is like nothing she's ever experienced and, although she hears it, she is still not entirely prepared for the impact when it comes; she's never prepared._

_Breath races out of her lungs in a gasp and pain explodes in her chest. It's always the same, it always hurts, but she never gets used to it. Unable to breathe or even think, she falls to the tiled ground in a heap, tears stinging her eyes and running down her face. Red cheeks flush even harder and snot dribbles from her nose. _

_The fist comes again, this time in the form of an open hand, and wraps around her scrawny little neck. Again, she can't breathe. The air enters her lungs for a moment, stops, and stays chocked there, unable to get out or invite more in. The hand closes tighter around her windpipe and she can feel the ghosts of bruises there as her eyes bulge and her red face turns blue._

_If she is to die now, it might be OK._

_..._

_Her hand trails along the butt of the gun, taking in the cold metallic feel and the heaviness of holding it in her palm. It seems odd that something so small and so simple looking could ever be responsible for something completely the opposite. She thinks that will make it easier then, that its appearance will distract her from the actual task and, with a humourless smile, she slips it into her knee-high boots._

_Safe and sound._

_..._

_She's still in the alley, only now she's running. Arms pumping, breath panting and heart racing as she tries to escape from a force she can't even see but instinctively knows is there. There's danger all around her, in the thundering clouds, the scampering rats and the broken glass under foot . . . in the person behind her. But is it a person? Santana can't be sure._

_It's something. Something big and dangerous that she knows wants to not only devour her but cause her pain, so much pain that she'll be begging for death even. Her heart aches at the thought, or maybe it's just the struggling to breathe, and she pushes herself further. She can escape if she just-_

_A hand springs out and knocks her on the side of her temple, sending her sprawling._

_..._

_Santana's in the lounge room, flat on her stomach, and she can feel and cringe at the presence beside her. Her hands and feet are tied, bound by unbreakable thread, and she wants to scream. Her mouth opens in a silent cry to meet this urge. No sound comes out – she's gagged. _

_Hot fire traces its way across the expanse of her shoulder, carving, moulding, and she can feel the tip of glass kiss her neck in a terrible blow. Her stomach and chest grate against the carpet as she writhes and Santana knows she will have carpet burns tomorrow. But when is tomorrow? What is today? She can't even remember. _

_Someone murmurs her name, a soft voice that brings a pained moan from the brunette's lips. _

_Squeezing her eyes shut she turns towards the wall, hoping to find a form of salvation, of rescue, of anything other than this even. She's too exhausted to be surprised when she does. There, standing in the centre of the wall, is a tall, leggy blonde with diamond blue eyes and a smiling face. Or, at least, she remembers it to be smiling – it's not smiling now._

"_Mrh-hm," she gasps through the __bond__ and she knows that, if her voice was at all legible, it would sound out one word: Brittany. _

_She wants to tell Brittany to run, to escape, to get out of here while she still can. She wants to ask her what she's doing here in the first place and when she got back from Holland. She wants to command her to close her eyes, to block everything out – _you can't see this, don't you know?_ There're so many things she needs to say. _

_Santana can't get the words out._

_Brittany's face, her beautiful face, is twisted up in agony at the scene in front of her. Her blue eyes are pleading and her mouth forms a painful scar on her face._

_Someone screams. Santana doesn't know who._

_She thinks it might have been her._

...

Liv Puckerman gazes at the sleeping woman beside her, body tense as she takes in Santana's violently tossing form. There are shivers running up the Latina's arm, igniting similar trembles along the little girl's (though, if anyone asks, Liv is _not_ a little girl) own ones as it brushes against them. Now and then, Santana will let out slight moans or whimpers, fingers clutching and clenching at the bed covers resting rumpled around her frail frame.

Liv is scared.

She doesn't like to ever admit such a thing (mostly because nasty Noah will go out of his way to tease) but she is. She can tell that the other girl is in pain but she doesn't know what to do or how to ease it. She also doesn't know why she's in pain. She wants to run to her mother's room, pull open the door and duck beneath the covers to hide away and alert Mrs. Puckerman to the danger . . . but she can't stomach the thought of leaving Santana alone. That would be wrong, wouldn't it?

She swallows and lets out a faint whimper of her own. Should she reach out to wake her? Would that help? Or would it just make things worse? A part of her is afraid to even go near the brunette, afraid to touch her and somehow break her in that action.

It's a stupid thought because Santana's the strongest person she knows – no, wait, that isn't quite true: her mother is the strongest person Liv knows, but Santana sure comes in a close second. So she's not used to seeing her so . . . fragile.

It really is scary.

Another moan escapes Santana's parted lips and Liv watches the ghost of a tear mark its way down the side of the Latina's cheek. She imagines it hot and wet and salty, and stares at the snail trail it leaves behind in horrified wonder.

Shivering, and mind made up, Liv rises carefully from the bed, eyes never quite leaving Santana's struggling face. Noah – she has to get Noah. He'll know what to do. He's her big great bear of a brother that comes in and protects her from the nightmares and the monsters under the bed. He's the one who teaches her how to punch so that stupid Ned Dildo can't steal her lunch at school. He's her protector.

Liv's willing to lend him to Santana for the night so he can be her protector too.

Her bare feet hit the cold floorboards, sending ice shooting up her tiny legs and stiffening her spine. Liv hates the cold. Taking a breath she moves away from the bed, pausing momentarily to press a kiss to Satan Jr.'s head, and tip-toes out of the room.

She can hear the sound of voices coming from down the hallway in the lounge room and she holds her breath as she approaches them. Thinking back to the colours on Santana's face, Liv shudders. She knows what they really are: not face paint but bruises. She remembers them from when Mummy used to wear face-paint too, only it wasn't face paint – it was just Daddy being angry. _Daddy_. No-one thinks she knows but she does – Puck told her once when he was drunk, only he can't remember, and she knows he was drunk because he was acting like an idiot (well, more than usual anyway).

People don't think she knows things, that she notices when the smiles stretched across their faces aren't really smiles at all but pained masks. They don't think she sees the cracked knuckles on her brother's hand after he's gotten himself into another fight, the palm-shaped bruises on Santana's neck, or the way her mother always flinches when her dad is mentioned. They don't think she sees _anything_ but she does. She always sees things, even though she wishes she didn't.

She pretends though that she doesn't because she thinks they like it when she pretends, that it helps them in a way, that maybe they need her to. The same way that it helps her to pretend that the broccoli at dinner is really a green coloured chocolate from Albania – she's not really sure where Albania is but she's sure they have green chocolate there, somewhere has to.

She thinks it might be like what Marry Poppins was saying, about how a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down; only, the things that happen that she's not supposed to know about, they're not any kind of medicine. They don't help anyone at all. And the sugar only ever masks the taste for a little while.

Stealing herself, Liv makes her way into the lounge room.

…

_There are emotions coursing through her, emotions that she doesn't allow herself to feel whilst awake, and the full power of them brings tears to her eyes and makes her body tremble. A man with no face crouches over her, big meaty hands fumbling with her belt buckle as her body writhes and kicks beneath him. Her back scrapes against the alley floor, drawing blood, and her mouth opens in shock at the sensation. _

_In her dreams, she feels everything. She can't not. She feels it all like she doesn't allow herself to feel when awake. She has no walls here. There's no place to escape to during the experience because this _**is**_ her mind, the place she would normally hideaway in when things get too much. Her world of pretend has become alarmingly close to reality and she's trapped in it._

_Her button-up shirt has been ripped open, exposing her plain bare midriff and displaying the dime-shaped cigarette burns near her hip bone. Her dream – she has to keep reminding herself that it is, in fact, a dream – pays a surprisingly close attention to detail, not even leaving out the scar near her belly button from when she fell over whilst playing Marco Polo by her grandfather's pool and landed on a crowbar left behind by the construction that came by during the week – her mother was supposed to be watching her; in fact, she was Polo. _

_Teeth gritting together, she kicks out a leg as the man finally unlocks the belt around her waist, the only thing keeping her pants in place, and misses his face by an inch. She catches his shoulder instead, which is something, and propels him back maybe a palm's length. He's on her again in seconds though, before she can even think about running, and, if she could make out his face, she knows it would be red with anger._

_In her dreams she still fights back, though it does no more good than it could in real life. The man-with-no-face always wins in the end._

_A monstrous body settles over her, crushing her stomach, and the big hands pin her arms over her head. The face leans in and whispers in her ear. She turns away in disgust at the words._

_..._

_She's in a big, bare room with no windows. It's almost pitch black and the only light comes in from the hole in the roof that's stretches up above her head. It's really more of an ancient structure, like one of those old churches with the stained glass windows. Dust hangs in the air, dancing around her silent form, and clogging up her nostrils. If this was real life, her hay fever would be playing up right about now._

_The only object in the room is a great big, grand piano coupled with a stool. The furniture's spotless, brown and beautiful and probably very expensive. Santana holds her breath as she chooses to approach._

_There's a piano just like it in her grandfather's house and some of the only fond memories she has of her family are because of it. Such a strange thing to find in a dark room where the air's so cold it makes her shiver and wrap her arms around herself._

_Even more confusing, Santana wonders what she herself is doing here._

. . . .

Quinn's sitting on the edge of Puck's mattress when Liv enters the room. She's been there for the past hour, having gone to bed and found that sleep was a notion very, very far away. She can't stop thinking long enough to relax and close her eyes and even when she does close her eyes the thoughts just raise in volume, pounding at the inner walls of her mind.

It's reminiscent of the time she first found out she was pregnant.

"What you doin' up, Kiddo?" Puck greets as Liv makes her presence known, rubbing her eyes tiredly and sniffing.

"Santa's acting weird," she murmurs through a yawn, eyes becoming big and worried.

The two teenagers exchange an uneasy glance, wondering just what Santana being 'weird' might mean. She hopes it's not that 'Santana-is-trying-to-escape-out-the-window-but-got-stuck-half-way' kind of weird. She's already experienced that kind once before at one of the customary sleepovers she used to have at her house before things went bad and it wasn't pleasant. Brittany called that weird, and that was _Brittany_ talking.

"Weird, how?" the blonde asks hesitantly.

Liv frowns and hugs herself. "Kind of scary."

"Like, yelling scary?" Puck asks confused, scratching his head.

The little girl shakes her head. "No. Well, yeah, but she's asleep. I think she's having a nightmare. Like the ones I used to get after you let me watch _Scream_ with you two years ago. And then you started having nightmares, too. because Mum found out and she said she was going to kill you."

Quinn's not surprised – about Santana's nightmares, not that Puck let her watch that movie, though she's not really surprised about that either. If her stepfather beat her up she'd have nightmares, too. Still, it's not something she had prepared for either. She'd had a check list in her head: make sure Santana doesn't end up dead, check wounds, clean up blood, clean up vomit, tie Santana to the couch so she doesn't go back home . . . She hadn't planned for nightmares as well.

She looks to Puck for help and sees him already heading towards the hallway door, obviously having some idea of what to do. Liv however stops him, eyes big and bottom lip jutted out in a pleading fashion. It's clear she's perfected the art of the puppy dog face and Quinn's almost certain Brittany's been teaching her.

"What's going on, No-No?" she asks, lip trembling and hands tugging at Puck's shirt. At any other time, Quinn would have laughed at the nickname.

"Nothing, kiddo," he responds distractedly, shaking out of her grip and trying to continue on with his exit but Liv's having none of it.

"No, no, no, no. I know something's wrong. Because you're all acting weird and Santana's here – and not to make weird sounds with you in her bedroom like usual – and there's bruises on her face like Mum used to get when Daddy was hurting her, only they're both telling me it's face paint but it's not and I want to know what's going on," the girl gushes in one breath, leaving Puck bewildered and reminding Quinn of one Rachael Berry. Actually, the girl kind of looks like a younger Berry, as well. That's a little bit freaky, especially considering Puck and Rachael once went out.

"Who told you about Dad?" He gapes at her, astonished and Liv pouts while Quinn watches on in confusion. Did she just say that Puck's dad used to hurt his mum? How is that possible? She shivers and wraps her arms around herself, wondering how so much pain can exist in the world and yet no-one knows a damn about it. She tries to remember that God does things for a reason, that he loves them all and doesn't like to see them suffer, but her memory's starting to fail her.

"You did," Liv says, pointing an accusing finger at her brother. "When you were drunk."

The blonde stares at Puck with her own form of disapproval, wondering how he could ever behave in such a manner in front of his little sister. Then she remembers that this is the boy who slept with his best friend's girlfriend whilst still dating Santana and finds that she really shouldn't be surprised. Puck drags a hand down his face in frustration.

"Yeah, well, I was lying," he tells her. "Forget it."

"No you weren't, I know you weren't. And now somebody's hurting Santa and you won't tell me _why,_ nobody will tell me why. You won't tell me why Daddy hurt Mum, you don't tell me _anything_! Nobody tells me anything and it's not fair!" she exclaims, face turning red in anger, and Quinn chews on her bottom lip nervously, hoping that they don't wake up Mrs. Puckerman and wondering how best to diffuse the situation. She doesn't understand it – what's going on, what they're talking about – not really, and she can't fully bring herself to want to either. Santana's in trouble, the worst kind, and that's all the bad news she can handle for one lifetime.

"Well, life isn't fair, Liv!" he explodes, causing both girls to take a step back in shock. "Now shut the hell up and let me go check on Santana."

"_Puck_," Quinn hisses, looking at the boy in disbelief and jerking her head in Liv's direction, who now looks close to bursting into tears. She understands that the stress of the situation is getting to him, to them both – the only difference is that she reacts to stress with crying fits and he responds with anger. She knows that he's worried about Santana, they all are, but that's no excuse to take it all out on Liv, who seems to be having a hard enough time as it is; the girl's only eight-years-old, she shouldn't have to put up with any of this.

A tear runs down the little girl's cheek as she stares at her brother in icy silence. "I hate you," she says in a low voice that's so deadly serious and so cold that it makes both teenagers shudder. "I hate you. I hate you! I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you! I HATE YOU!" she screams and Quinn hastily steps forward, wrapping an arm around Liv's waist, and placing a hand over her mouth to keep the words in. There's no way Mrs. Puckerman could have slept through that and she really doesn't want to be the one to explain to her why exactly her daughter hates her own brother now.

Liv continues to shout through Quinn's hand, words too muffled to make out though the intent behind them is clear, and the blonde glances up at Puck, who looks rather like someone has just slapped him across the face; it pulls at her heart strings. She wants to tell him that it's OK, that kids, and even adults, say things they don't mean all the time, and that she's seen him with his sister and seen the love between them . . . but nothing comes out.

Tears are running noisily down Liv's face and her small body is quaking with suppressed sobs; she's the priority right now. Not taking her eyes off Puck, Quinn draws the little girl into her body and hugs her tight from behind. "Go check on Santana," she says to him with forced calmness and, in a state of shock, he nods and walks off.

Quinn closes her eyes before looking down at Liv, holding her slightly closer. The little girl turns into her, burying her head in the blonde's chest, somehow managing to get past the massive stomach. "Shh," she soothes, running a hand over the girl's hair. "It's OK. Everything's OK. Why don't you come and spend some time with me, OK?"

Liv nods against her chest, still sobbing and Quinn kisses her forehead. "Come on." Despite her words, though, the blonde wonders how anything can ever be OK again. The traitorous voice whispers in the back of her head, '_It can't,'_ and she shudders against the thought, bringing the little girl closer into her, this time hoping to take comfort rather than to give it.

. . .

_Hands pull and claw violently at her chest, causing Santana to let out a small cry at the cuts and future-bruises they leave behind. To her relief, they slip away, only to snap around her dirty pants and pull. She's never been more thankful for the tightness and stubbornness of jeans as, for a few tantalising moments, they refuse to budge. But then they're coming, slow and doggedly, down her thighs and over her knees, collecting in a heap at her ankles._

_She knows by heart what comes next and closes her eyes, ignoring the single tear that escapes. It's something she stopped allowing herself to do in the real world a long time ago. _

_This isn't real._

_But her earlier conviction that this is a dream begins to fade. After all, when she's awake she likes to think the exact same thing. They can't both be dreams – one of them has to be reality._

_She hates to admit that she can't work out which. _

_Santana sucks in a breath as she raises the lid of the piano, eyes widening at the perfect white and black keys that reveal themselves. Captivated, she runs a trembling finger over them. They feel like glass beneath her touch, like no matter how much she wants to push down and release a sound, she's scared she'll break them. _

_She's never wanted to keep something pieced together so much in her life._


	8. Trapped in a Nightmare: Part 2

_**A/N: Well, here's part 2. I'm not too sure about it but I'll see what you guys think. Thanks for the reviews!**_

_**Warning: abuse & not-too-graphic rape but if that is a trigger for anyone than I recommend not to read the nightmare scenes**_

_**. . . **_

"_Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."_

_- Philip K. Dick _

Carol Hudsen watches in concern as her only son – though she's starting to rethink that theory now that Kurt's become a part of her life – ambles around the kitchen, half-heartedly grabbing various foods to eat. Normally, when her son has the night off from friends and homework – or, rather, just chooses not to do any of his homework – she can spot him piling up mountain loads of unhealthy foods that make her cringe to take back to his room and gorge himself on whilst playing one of those horrible shooting games on his playstation. She has become used to this routine, along with the rare moments of peace she can find with Burt to sit on the couch, cuddled up together, and watch some old romantic movie for the next couple of hours, because of it.

But this isn't like what she has come to know, Carol can tell that much. She can see the sad undertone in her baby's eyes and the way in which his enthusiasm for one of his favourite past times has been lost. It makes her gnaw on her lip in worry and fight back against the uncomfortable clenching around her heart.

"Finn, honey, you alright?" she tries, watching him from her position on the couch besides Burt.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he says, tries to smile, and walks away. She sighs, watching him go. Carol turns back to Burt and sends him a questioning look, hoping he will have the answer to this mystery. "Something's the matter with him but I can't work out what it is. He was fine when he came home from school."

Burt shrugs his shoulders but not unsympathetically. "Want me to go talk to him? It's probably got something to do with that Santana girl."

Carol frowns at this, never having heard the name Santana before in her life except for when her late husband had told her about some great guitar artist she hadn't ever bothered to listen to. "Who's Santana?"

"Just some girl that was over earlier, a friend of Finn's from Glee club. Don't worry," he adds, seeing her immediately worried expression – she hasn't after all forgotten the near panic attack she had been given when Finn told her he had gotten Quinn pregnant, even if that had all been a lie, "nothing happened. They just had a bit of a disagreement. Nothing too bad."

Carol nods and sighs. "Do you think you could go talk to him then?" She wishes she could be the one who knows what's going on, who could talk to her son and comfort him but she knows that, for this, Burt is the best choice. As her boyfriend nods his head and gets up off the couch, disappearing after Finn into the boy's room, she wonders why he can't just go back to being that little boy again, the one who cried over tripping down the stairs. All she had to do then to make things better was place a bandaid on his knee and kiss it better.

But bandaids and kisses haven't been the solution for anything for quite a while now.

. . .

_He's there, in front of her, completely unaware to what awaits. Santana hates him even more for that ignorance, that innocence that wasn't allowed to her. In some ways, she always knows what is coming, and it kills her. _

_In a haze, she bends down and retrieves that gun from her boot, raising it in deathly still hands and aiming it at Garry's head, not a single tremble._

_He doesn't notice._

_Her head falls to the side as the beast above her does what he wishes. The pains, the violations . . . they're all just fog in her mind. She can feel everything but she's somehow, mercifully, become disconnected, cloudy to the effect. Her hands contract at her sides as he thrusts particularly hard and she jerks in response. Cloudy or not, the storm's still very much there, thundering beneath the surface, and she can feel the metaphorical rain and wind on her skin. Staying still, she knows the storm will pass soon enough, but she wonders whether running will get her out of the onslaught faster . . ._

_If she could only run. _

. . .

The trip to his sister's bedroom is a slow one, as Liv's words play over and over again in his head, mixed in with the undeniable worry (oh, how he wishes he could deny) he feels for Santana. Puck hates to admit that the little girl's words hurt him, or that he even sort of believes them, and he wants to go back in time and handle the situation better. But if there was ever a way of doing such a thing, he would have found it and used it a long time ago; there are too many mistakes in his past not to want to fix them.

He hates that he yelled at her, hates even more the fact that he let out that secret to her even if he can't remember doing it because that was the one thing he had wanted to keep from her more than anything else. Liv was never ready to know something like that – the truth about their parents – no matter how grown-up she liked to act he knew she was still just a kid. And all Puck had ever wanted to do was protect her, in the way that he couldn't protect his mum, in the way he had never been able to protect Santana.

The knowledge that he failed hurts more than anything else that night and Puck sighs, wishing he could just go back to the careless life of a jock he had grown accustomed to. It takes him sometime to remember that, while he _had _been careless, he had never really been innocent, and that's the thing he really wants.

"Noah, what's going on?" a tired looking Mrs Puckerman asks, coming out of her room. Her face is lined with worry, aged well beyond her years, and he feels the burden of that age also weighing him down. He remembers her being beautiful once, before all that stuff with his dad, but it's only just a memory now, just like so many other things.

Puck frowns, wondering whether to tell her the truth or to save her from that worry. "Liv says Santana's having nightmares. I'm going to go check on her."

His mum nods, accepting this without further explanation and with ease; she's had her own fair share of nightmares, Puck knows, to expect them from others. "Did I hear arguing?"

He thinks he should tell her that Liv knows, that one of them is going to have to talk to her, but he can't quite get the words out. All his mother has ever done is try to protect them and he thinks it's not too much to ask that he does the same in regards to her. He'll talk to Liv, somehow, apologise for yelling and try to comfort her about the situation. Maybe he'll even be able to convince her that what happened to Ma was all a lie, though he thinks Santana would be better at that than him – she always was a good liar. "Nah. Liv just got a little upset but Quinn's taking care of it."

Mrs. Puckerman's mouth moves into a thin line and she glances down the hallway worriedly, obviously debating on whether to go check the situation for herself.

Puck shakes his head and pats her arm. "Seriously, Ma, it's all fine."

Even as she nods her head, offers him a small smile and moves back into her room, he doesn't think she believes him. He's grateful for the fact that she tries to pretend anyway, though.

Sighing, Puck continues on his walk towards Liv's room.

. . .

Finn sighs, watching as some cartoon flashes across the screen of the T.V. in his room, not really paying any attention and finding himself unable to get the conversation from earlier, over at Puck's, out of his head. He can't wrap his mind around it and he doesn't actually think he wants to either. None of it makes any sense, and even though he's used to things not making sense this is somehow worse.

He hates himself for not just giving up his bed for Santana the moment she went over to it and preventing all of this from happening. He could have just gone and popped some pop-corn, vacated the room for however long he wanted, and everything would have been fine. No-one would have gotten hurt.

He hates taking responsibility for things because he hates being the bad guy, but Quinn's accusations have left no room for him to deny that he isn't, in some way, responsible. Still, he hopes against it.

There's a knock on his door and Burt steps in, looking slightly uncomfortable. Finn wonders why people bother to knock when they're not going to wait for an answer anyway. He's not upset, just . . . confused. Everything's confusing to him right now.

It's kind of a blessing in some ways.

"Hey, everything OK?" the man asks, stepping further into the room. "Everything all good?"

Finn nods his head, not looking at him as he stares at the grilled cheese sandwich in his hands that he still hasn't touched. He doesn't really feel like eating now and had only gotten the sandwich to try and distract himself from the situation at hand. It didn't work.

"Mm," Burt grunts and takes a seat beside him on the bed. "Your mum thinks differently and, I gotta say, so do I."

Finn doesn't answer and fiddles with the sandwich. He wonders whether Santana is alright, because Quinn and Puck barely told him anything about her state of being, and he fears what's going to happen when they see each other again at school. He thinks she might hit him. He thinks he might deserve it. "Do you ever . . ." He makes a hesitant stop, pauses, and thinks about what it is he's trying to say. Getting his thoughts in order is proving to be most difficult. "Do you ever feel like maybe you did something wrong, something really bad, but you didn't actually know that it was going to be bad before you did it? So you don't really know how exactly you went wrong or how to fix it?" He thinks that's what he's trying to say and is surprised at the accuracy of his words, how much they're not jumbled up. He thinks that, to most people, his words usually sound stupid.

Burt shrugs, unbothered by the unusually deep question from the football player. "Happens every time I talk to a girl: there's always something you can say to upset them – though, don't tell your mother that."

"Oh," Finn murmurs, again toying with the sandwich. He thinks of the hurt in Santana's eyes as she left his room and the rage in Quinn's as she advanced on him, and hates himself slightly. But even slightly, right now, seems like too much. "I think I did something bad."

. . .

_She's eight-years-old again, being taught to play piano for the first time, and, with a quacking motion, she pushes a finger experimentally down. Sound erupts in the deathly silent structure and she almost flinches in response. _

_Santana bites her lip, and presses hesitantly at a second key, gnawing on the tender flesh beneath her tooth as she wonders at the sound. She feels calm almost, at ease, and, with a faint smile pulling at her lips, she places two hands over the keys. Already, her fingers know the actions they'll need by memory. _

_Gently, they begin, fingers snaking out in all directions as she searches for a tune she remembers. Vaguely, as the music rises up and surrounds her, she thinks heaven might just be this: a dusty, dark old room with a piano in it, and she wonders whether that makes her dead._

_..._

_Santana can't breathe. She's in the exact same position she's been in ever since her back hit the ground, and the man's still there, towering over her. Only now there's another one, off to the distance and wearing the well-known face of her stepfather. He's holding in his arms a struggling Brittany, his hand firmly __round__ around her neck, and in that instant she forgets that this is a dream._

_She forgets it completely._

_Santana reaches out a hand towards her friend, flingers grasping and tearing at thin air, but she's still being held down and it's impossible. She's still being mercilessly ravaged and she's still in the most amounts of pain. But all she can see is Brittany, her blue eyes having widened and searching her own for help. _

_She hates that she can't give it. _

"_B . . ."The word falls from her lips, dead lyrics before anyone can hear them._

. . .

Puck's long since learnt that it's best not to wake her. The first and only time Santana stayed the night to sleep beside him after a fuck, she ended up tossing and turning in the sheets, whimpering and moaning – and this was not in the good way. So, Puck had done what any decent person, or at least half-way decent one, would do. He woke her up. And she nearly killed him for his efforts. Seriously, he was wearing a black eye for weeks.

Lesson learnt: let sleeping Santanas lie. There's like a proverb or something about it and everything. Actually, he thinks there was something about it in Harry Potter . . . not that he reads Harry Potter, or any kind of book that actually has words in it. Nope, not him.

So, here he is, sitting on the chair at Liv's desk and watching as his friend twitches and groans in sleep. Her hands are curled into fists around the sheets that drape her form as if she she's trying to hold onto something, something that has already slipped away and she knows she has no chance of getting back. Puck wants to reach out to her, to comfort her – what decent human being wouldn't? – but he doesn't know _how_, he never did. It's Brittany who's skilled in the art of soothing the wild beast inside Santana, with a touch, a kiss, a smile. Puck can do all of those things too, and more, but he doesn't think they'd quite measure up.

They never have.

If a stranger asked Puck what he feels for Santana he would reply with a simple, "She's good in the sack." No more, no less. If someone like his mum asked him, he would tell them that he's reasonably close with Santana because she's been his friend since kindergarten. No more, no less. Quinn, he would say Santana's a great sexting partner, but is nothing compared to her divine perfectness (he has in fact already said this once, after she hit him over the head with a cantaloupe). No more, no less. If Matt (the only other boy who has actually been Santana's boyfriend for a time) asked, he would share in the solidarity of their two man club and profess that he still has feelings for Santana that go beyond friendship. No more, no less. If Brittany asked, he would say that he loves Santana because the idea of anyone not loving her best friend would be nothing short of a blasphemy in the blonde's eyes; in fact, the idea of not loving_ everyone_ would be just unacceptable for her. No more, no less. If Santana herself asked, Puck would quite calmly and quite casually tell her that he hates her, has always hated her. No more, no less.

The thing is, not once would he be lying, in any of those responses.

His feelings towards Santana are complicated at best and he has a hunch that they will remain so for as long as he can still have the ability to feel, which sounds like a pretty damn long time. They haven't always been that way, of course; and sometimes Puck longs for the days of childhood when he just felt simple friendship towards the girl. Well, apart from that one time when he was angry with her for stealing his crayon and refusing to give it back (that had been the beginning of a 'beautiful' friendship.) Though, in a way, he _does_ long for those days as well, because if having your crayon stolen is the worst thing that can happen to you, then that's a pretty cool deal. A lot better than the one he's got going for him now, at any rate.

He sighs and takes his eyes off Santana, unable to look at her any longer as her face screws up in obvious pain and she lets out a groan. He wonders whether, if he starts playing with crayons again, Santana will try to steal them like she did back then, in kindergarten. He wants her to, just to show him that she's still that same girl, but he doesn't truly believe that she would, not really.

. . .

_Santana opens the lid of the piano stool, an unknown compulsion driving her to do so. Maybe she's looking for the sheet music her mother kept hidden away in the stool for safe keeping but she's been happy so far playing songs from memory so she doesn't understand why that could be it._

_It's not. Upon opening the lid, she finds that there's nothing in there. Not a thing. Just a big, gaping darkness that seems to go on forever. An abyss._

_Frowning, Santana reaches a hand into the darkness, crinkling her nose when she finds only softness to the touch. There's the smell of turkey and thanks-giving pie as well, wafting up from the hole and swallowing her. Slowly, it draws her in._

_Tentatively, Santana lowers a second hand into the stool, again finding that softness and being unable to deny that she rather likes it. It reminds her of pillows and ducks and Brittany, and therefore a feeling of safety overwhelms her. Less cautious now, she lifts first one leg in and then the other, until she's completely inside the belly of this thing she can't work out._

_She snuggles inside, finding no walls or limits but still feeling a cushioning surface to hold her up. Decidedly, she reaches up and grabs the lid of the stool, pulling it back over her and closing the lid on her abyss._

_..._

_Her finger trembles slightly on the trigger and her lips press together in a firm line. She wants to do this, wants to do it more than anything, but there's a dark feeling bubbling up in her chest, very nearly engulfing her. She imagines it to be an inky black tar, suffocating in its force, and she wonders whether that's what it will do – make its way into her lungs and drown her from the inside out._

_She almost prays for it._

_He, for the first and final time, turns to face her and the familiar scorn in his eyes makes a decision for her, a decision she shouldn't have to make. The finger presses, hard and determined, and the bullet flies out, freed from its cage._

_Blood splatters everywhere and she allows herself for the first time to breathe. She doesn't feel any different and, for a moment, she thinks that maybe she should. Lowering the gun, she gazes into the gory face of the man who has so much power over her and, distantly, feels her heart harden into ice._

_This is the price._

_..._

_The knife plunges into the blonde's stomach and Santana's breath hitches, catching in the back of her throat. _No_. Again, she flails out with a hand, reaching for the one important thing she has ever known, and yet again finds only air. Brittany's body falls, convulsively to the ground, and blood blooms out to surround it._

_Santana can feel the sticky liquid on her hands, in her hair, __meldin__g with the blood already on her back and forcing its way in clogging degrees into her mouth. It's chocking her._

_She keeps both eyes on Brittany, though, focusing on the way the blue orbs still blink at her, giving signs of life. It's a dying life but a life nonetheless, and the brunette holds onto that much in the way someone holds onto a hand, keeping them from falling from the top of a thousand story building._

_Brittany's all she can see. And when the eyes blink shut for the last time, she thinks it might just be the only thing she'll ever see again. Her hand reaches out, desperate, and the darkness consumes her._

…

"Brittany!"

The plunge back into reality is so sudden and shocking that, at first, she doesn't realize that it's happened at all. Her body is springing into a sitting position, heart pounding and chest heaving as she tries to both catch her breath and remember how to breathe at the same time. Her sides heave with the effort and short gasps slip from her lips as her hands search for the blonde, finding only empty darkness.

The warm, strong arms that wrap around her send jolts of fear down her spine and she flinches before realizing that the hands running through her hair and down her back are gentle rather than violent, contained instead of invasive. Seeking the security that the arms attempt to offer, she burrows within them like a little girl, burying her face in the strong chest in front of her and letting out a scream that she could never have hoped to hold in. She screams into the shoulder of the person holding her and it comes out a strained, muffled noise with no volume. She hardly notices, though, digging her fingers into the muscular arms and letting out another. She has to let it out.

Santana can't tell where she is, who she's with, only that it's not Brittany and that she doesn't know where her best friend is. She wants the blonde so badly, to see that she's OK, that the desire actually causes her physical pain and she lets out a tearless sob that rips through her throat and fills her with shame.

It's only when the words come, dropping from familiar lips, that some sense is finally knocked back into her, propelling her that little step further into reality and clearing the fog slightly from her mind. She knows where she is now.

"Hey, shh, it's OK," a voice, a voice she recognises to be Puck's, murmurs comfortingly in her ear and she feels warm hands smoothing back her hair and rubbing her trembling back in the fruitless hopes of giving reassurance.

Immediately, Santana struggles, the knowledge that this is real, that everything else was just a dream, racing through her and causing a sudden state of panic. This can't happen. She's OK. She can't be anything but OK. She's not going to be crying into Puck's shoulder, she's not going to be weak or powerless like she is in her dreams or at home.

It was all just a dream.

She's OK.

Puck seems to have different ideas, though, for, as she tries to pull out of his grip, it only turns tighter and more constricting, trapping even. "Don't," the voice says but Santana only struggles harder, hands turning to powerful fists to batter at the boy's chest, legs kicking out beneath her in a fury. She wants him to let her go, to leave the room and never come back, so she can bury herself under the covers and try to forget everything like she always does, to pretend again that everything's OK.

She doesn't want him to see her weak.

"Santana, don't," he tries again, not letting go as she fights against his hold. "It's OK. You're allowed to do this. You're allowed to not be strong."

She wonders how he knows, how he guesses that that's her reason, and fears for a moment whether she's really that transparent. Does everyone know that she's not as strong as she pretends to be? Do the kids at school watch her dominating form with wary gazes only to laugh at how utterly pathetic she is behind her back when it's turned? Does Mr. Shue see through her biting comments and promiscuity and think that there's just a scared little girl underneath, only to do nothing about it anyway? There's not, of course, she hasn't been a little girl for a long time, but she wonders whether he still thinks it.

The thought makes her want to die.

"No," she says, still struggling and trying her best to move away. She considers hitting him but knows he'll probably be a massive baby about the whole thing and start crying which will only bring somebody else into the room, somebody else to see her in her defeat.

"Yeah, you can. You're allowed to cry. I mean, seriously, everyone does it – not me, of course, but everyone else – and even though I ain't any good with crying chicks I won't be that bad. I'll keep it a secret and everything, just between me and you." She hates that he knows exactly what to say to make it OK, because it's not OK, it shouldn't be OK. She's _not_ allowed to cry, not over this.

If Santana cried over every single nightmare she has, she would be a wreck. There's nothing different about this one: the rape, killing Garry, Brittany's death, the piano, it's all familiar to her. Seriously, her mind definitely lacks in creativity. So, really, it shouldn't shake her up so much. She should be fine. She shouldn't want to break down in a ball and cry.

But it was so real. All of it. It's always so real.

Santana can remember Brittany's lifeless eyes more clearly than she can even remember her own name. She can still feel the blood on her fingertips and the hot liquid filling her lungs and suffocating her. She can hear Brittany's last gasp, falling from the blonde's lips like the final pebble down a ravine, ringing in her ears.

It's tormenting. And she can't fight it.

Defeated, Santana goes limp, allowing him to hold her, to comfort her, and to try and chase away the demons that will never quite leave her. He holds her tight, trying to soothe with words but failing because he doesn't know the language like Brittany does, the language her best friend's always known without even trying. But he's there, solid and trying. He holds her while she breaks down and that's enough. The knowledge that she's not alone is enough, she hopes it's enough. But she doesn't cry, she can't ever allow herself to cry over this.

. . .

_**A/N: I put Finn in this chapter because I wanted to check up on how he was doing. Personally, I don't think any of this is really his fault but that doesn't mean that he has to think the same thing. I was also a little worried about the vulnerability Santana was showing with Puck after she woke up but I think I might have made it work in the end. Anyway, tell me what you think. Bad? Good? Take your pick.**_


	9. Hopeless Advice

**_A/N: And I'm back, after a long time away, which I am very sorry for. I needed a break from Glee, though, because I kept getting distracted by other fandoms which was not proving good for writing this story. But now I'm back and ready to continue on with Pieces, also to attempt to read the 21 pages of Santana fanfictions that have built up during my absence (I'm not really sure how I'm going to get through them all). Anyway, this is sort of a two-parter and Brittany does make an appearance as promised. She will also be in the next chapter, though unfortunately she hasn't come back to Lima yet. It's also not my best chapter but i'm going to try and make the next one better. I hope you like it anyway._**

**_Also, thankyou so, so much to all the reviews you guys have made, they mean so much to me. I haven't really replied to any of them like I normally would but I want you to know that I really appreciate them despite my laziness. _****_J_******

* * *

_"One's first step in wisdom is to question everything - and one's last is to come to terms with everything."- Georg C. Lichtenberg_

_..._

Quinn frowns down at the tea cup in her hands, willing herself to plough through the sleep induced haze, which has been hanging around since waking up that morning, in order to at least try and raise the cup to her lips and take a sip. No such luck. She's exhausted, completely and utterly, though she thinks she should hardly be surprised by that after only getting an hour and a half's sleep. _Thankyou, Santana._

Immediately, the blonde feels guilty for the thought but can hardly bring up enough energy to care. She's too tired right now to restrict her thoughts and be the understanding Mother Theresa that she vowed to herself last night to be. Groaning and closing her eyes, Quinn leans back against the kitchen counter, very nearly falling asleep in the process. She almost wants to.

Maybe she should just stay home from school today.

But then she would have to spend the rest of the day around Santana and, as bad as it sounds, she doesn't think she can take that right now. As much as the blonde wants to keep an eye on her friend, emotionally and even physically she really just doesn't think she's up to it. Any form of communication she would have with the Latina she knows would be exhausting and stressful at best, two things that she certainly already has in the bucket loads and is unable to take any more of.

Plus, she spent a good hour last night trying to comfort Liv, who was anything but understanding to Quinn's baby demanding its mother's nightly dose of rest. Not that she blames the girl, of course, because she doesn't and she's really just glad to have helped in any way, it's just . . .

She's so tired.

Someone lets out a pained grunt and Quinn opens her eyes and glances up to see Puck, having wondered into the kitchen and bumped into the doorway on his way, backing away and rubbing his head with a groan. She tries to smirk, like she normally would, but can't bring herself to make that kind of an effort and instead settles for just plain blinking. It doesn't have nearly the same effect.

"Stupid doorway," he mutters to himself, looking down at the cell phone in his hand again and continuing to read. She imagines that's what he was doing when he made his 'graceful' collision with the doorway in the first place; idiot. Quinn thinks that maybe she should advise him that having both eyes open and trained ahead when walking is usually a good idea in the long run but remembers that she's already said this to him once before and it obviously didn't make any kind of impression; why bother? "Can't believe it has the balls to run into me."

The blonde finds the energy to raise an eyebrow at that remark but otherwise doesn't comment, instead focusing on the cell phone in Puck's hands. It's not his. She can tell this because, for one, it's pink and unless Puck has something he wants to tell her she really doubts he's the proud owner of a pink phone."Is that Santana's?" she asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her words.

"Yep," he answers simply.

She gapes at him. "You can't just read all her messages without asking." She can tell he's reading her messages because she can see the screen from here and she knows he didn't ask her about it because, for obvious reasons, Santana would never have actually agreed to lend her phone to him. Quinn would never lend her phone to Puck and she doesn't even half the privacy issues that the Latina does.

"Why not?" Puck asks with a shrugs. "She reads mine all the time without asking. Seriously, she steals my fucking phone every time I'm not looking, it's annoying." He pouts slightly at the thought before moving on. "Did you know she's still screwing Matt? Weird, I thought they stopped getting together ages ago."

Quinn frowns, wondering how such a mundane conversation like this could be taking place after last night. It doesn't seem possible for them to be talking about stuff like this, almost acting like what did happen didn't. She wonders whether they have the right to do that and, more importantly, does she even really care. "You can tell from her texts whether she's sleeping with someone?" The blonde tries to imagine what could be written in those texts for such a message to get across and immediately frowns in disgust, wishing she hadn't.

"Santana only texts guys she's sleeping with," he tells her casually, like such a thing is completely normal and she supposes, for them, it is. Not for her, though, even after the disaster that was her first sexual experience, sex still means something to her, and it means a lot actually. She can't imagine ever drifting into a lifestyle where she would grow to think as little of it as some of her closest friends. She doesn't understand how Puck and Santana can get together with so many different people, share that one act that is supposed to mean everything, and treat it like it's nothing.

But, then, she's never really understood Puck and Santana, especially Santana.

She knows that, for some, the meaning of sex can differ depending on who it's with, can even transform into not meaning anything at all, but Quinn could have sex with Kurt and still think that it meant something.

She wonders if that makes her world view incredibly naïve, overly sentimental or just hopeful. She thinks it might be the latter but either way neither of them are very flattering.

"Well, except for maybe this Freshman kid," he adds after a pause, still not looking up from the screen. "Unless she's starting to get them younger now. Wait, I'm pretty sure this is the guy that always glares at me in the hallways." He frowns slightly before shrugging his shoulders and continuing on. Quinn is too bewildered to intercept. "No texts from Brittany, though. Odd – usually, there's like a dozen from one day."

"She's probably just busy," the blonde suggests, not really that concerned. If _she_ was visiting family in Holland, she doubts she would have much time to text either. Though she wishes that wasn't the case with Brittany because, judging by the state Santana's in, she could really use her best friend right now. She looks down for a moment, thinking over her next question and debating whether it's really the right thing to ask right now. Even when she speaks, she's not sure whether she's chosen correctly but she has to ask. "Why do you do it?" Quinn tries not to let the jealousy she feels on the subject seep into her voice, because that's not what this is about, but isn't sure whether she succeeds.

"What?" He asks, suitably confused.

"Use her – after knowing what she's been through," she responds, voice emotionless and simple. She's been thinking about it for some time now, trying to wrap her head around the whole situation, but it's become clear to her that she just can't. Quinn wonders how Puck can even bear the thought of sleeping with Santana only to then tossing her aside just like all the other girls he's with, knowing that this form of treatment isn't too much better than what Garry does. Not as horrific, yes, but still not exactly right. "Why do you use her like that?"

Immediately, Puck looks offended, almost as if Quinn's just accused him of murdering his baby sister and she feels slightly guilty, knowing this isn't really any of her business. She has to know, though, she has to try and understand this, all of it. She needs to be able to look at her friend and not see a complete incomprehensible stranger because she can't understand her at all. Deep down, though, the blonde doubts she'll ever really be able to understand Santana and she's both disappointed and grateful for that fact.

"Use Santana? She's the one who does the using, babe, not me. At best, we use each other." He's definitely offended, she can tell, and the guilt deepens but she keeps it hidden.

She wonders whether this is true, whether she's gotten it all wrong and Santana is actually truly comfortable with the situation. Except, if Quinn had gone through what Santana went through, still _goes_ through – she can't actually bring herself to say the word – she doubts she would ever want to be touched by another human being in that way again. It takes her some time to remember that Santana isn't her, has never been her, and will never be her; she will never think about things the same way Quinn does. And that's something she should be thankful for. "I just . . . don't you think it would be better for her if she stopped being so . . ." A bunch of words race through Quinn's mind, none of them sounding nice or entirely accurate when describing Santana. Eventually she gives up, wishing she had never broached the subject in the first place.

"Slutty?" Puck questions, face blank and carless, though in his eyes she sees the faintness of a reproachful glint. She doesn't blame him.

"_No_," the blonde stresses, knowing it to be the truth. She wonders what exactly it is she is trying to get at and it takes her a few moments to recollect her thoughts. This was definitely a bad conversation to start when running on only an hour and half's sleep; what was she thinking? "Just . . . I can't help but think that . . . what she's doing may only be making things worse for herself instead of better. I mean, don't you think she needs some actual stability in her life? Not just random hook-ups."

"Hey," Puck shrugs his shoulders, apparently unbothered but she knows that's just a ruse. "I have random hook-ups and I'm just fine."

_'It's not the same!' _she wants to scream but knows it won't accomplish anything. She can't think of any way of explaining herself that will actually make sense and not sound in the least stereotypical. She wonders whether even she understands what she's saying and debates over whether or not to just give up.

Her stupid mouth makes the decision for her moments later, before she has a chance to stop it. "I think you should stop sleeping with Santana," she lets out in a rush, cringing slightly in the process; even to her own ears the words sound like something a jealous girlfriend would spew and she's not so sure anyone would believe her if she denied that was indeed the case.

"What?" Puck's face falls and he looks like someone's just taken away his favourite puppy; Santana can't really be that good in bed, can she? Quinn makes a face at the thought, not wanting to go there. God, this is so definitely happening only because she is sleep deprived. "Is this about you and me?" he asks after a pause and Quinn slams her cup down onto the kitchen bench, the liquid within sloshes about and some over flows onto the tabletop. Just like the situation, the result is uncontrollable, harsh black-brown liquid seeping into one of Ms. Puckerman's only good tea towels and instilling a dark, unavoidable stain.

Do people really think she's that selfish? That she would even consider making a play on Puck at a time like this? "No! This has nothing to do with that, there isn't even a 'that'! It doesn't even have anything to do with you, this is about Santana." She pauses and takes a breath, if only to try and keep herself from punching the boy in the face. "She's turning sex into something that it's not . It isn't healthy. The longer she keeps treating sex like it's nothing, the longer she'll think of what happens to her . . ." She closes her eyes, shying away from that mental picture before continuing, "because of Him as nothing as well. And it's _not _nothing," Quinn sighs in defeat, her rage disappearing as soon as it came. Tiredly, she presses her fingers to her forehead, massaging her temple in a fruitless attempt to ward off the oncoming headache. "I just want to fix this – _her_. And . . . and I don't know _how_." _So I'm just grasping at straws._

Puck glances down at his feet for a moment, avoiding her gaze. "I know. Me, too. But I don't think this is something that can be fixed. And Santana treating the whole thing like it's nothing? I think she kinda needs to . . . like, to survive and stuff." He looks at her with such an imploring gaze that she has to wonder once again where the boy she slept with earlier that year has gone. He'll be exactly like him for ages, acting carless and blunt, but then he'll say or he'll do _something_ . . . and she has to wonder whether he was ever that boy in the first place. The thought makes her somehow sad but she's too exhausted to cry anymore. "I don't know, tell me if I'm wrong, but I think it would be kind of cruel to make her realize that it's not. Nothing, I mean. That it's not nothing."

Quinn sighs and leans back against the counter, once again wondering what possessed her to bring this up. It's not like she's changed anything, or accomplished something. Puck's right, she knows he is, but she can't help but worry, about everything now. She's worried about the way Santana lives her life, how she can so easily lie to them without their knowledge, how the Puck she knew is slowly fading and how the Quinn she used to be has also started to disappear. She's worried about the baby in her tummy and whether or not she's making the right choices in regards to her and about how she's going to keep all this a secret when all she really wants to do is run to Mr Shu and blurt out the whole nasty true, every iota of it. She's about how she's going to take care of all of them when she doesn't really even know how to take care of herself . . .

The list is endless.

She's just so damn worried.

. . .

"Boo Boo?" Liv whispers weakly into the cell phone, resting over her ear. She stole it out of Quinn's purse, which was sitting near the fire place, while Quinn and Noah were fighting in the kitchen. She doesn't really know what the fighting was about, and she doesn't really want to, but she caught the naughty word S – E – X and hastily backed away from the doorway upon hearing it. It's so gross that she can't understand why grown-ups do it or why they even want to talk about it, it definitely supports her best friend's theory that all people over the age of fifteen are insane. Don't they have better things to talk about? Like coloured pencils. Her best friend also walked in on her parents . . . well, you know . . . last year and she said it was really freaky and kind of scary. Liv seriously thinks it might be a form of child abuse because now, whenever the word's even mentioned, her friend starts shaking really badly; poor thing. She hopes her parents feel really bad about themselves.

"Hi, Quinn," replies the chirpy voice of one Brittany S. Pierce on the other end and Liv can't help but smile. It's a relief to finally hear someone sounding happy after last night and she wishes the blonde was here because then maybe her bubbly energy would make everyone else smile as well.

The smile fades though when she remembers why she's calling and her bottom lip trembles as she glances back fearfully towards the kitchen. Everyone's kind of angry now and she really doesn't want to get in to trouble for stealing Quinn's phone but she had too – the home phone doesn't have Brittany's number on speed dial.

"It's not Quinn. It's me, Liv." She pouts and curls up on the couch, purple fairy pyjamas crinkling as she crosses her legs.

"Oh, hey, Liv." She still sounds happy and the little girl wonders whether she wants to mess up that happiness. She doesn't really think it would be fair. "What's going on?"

"Things are really scary here, Boo Boo," Liv tells her in a small voice. It's a nickname that developed when she was five and Brittany dressed up as a ghost for Halloween. Her costume was relatively simple, though, only consisting of a white sheet and the word 'BOO!" written across it in big black letters. Liv then decided that Boo was a lot easier to say than Brittany, and then Puck had said that Boo Boo sounded cuter, so the name had stuck.

She has a nickname for everyone; well, except for Quinn but she's working on it. Santana said once that 'Skank' had a nice ring to it but then her mum said that was a bad word and wouldn't stop glaring at the brunette for the rest of the night.

"What do you mean?" the blonde asks in confusion. "Did Puck make you watch Scream 4 again because if he did you should tell Santana – she would, like, totally beat him up for you."

Liv looks down at her feet hanging over the edge of the couch and kicks them out at an invisible foe, imagining the faces of her father, her brother and the person that makes Santana purple. All she hits is air and it doesn't change anything. "No. Everyone keeps shouting and No-No's being mean and Santa-"

"Liv, who are you talking to?" a cautious voice asks from the direction of the kitchen and the eight-year-old glances over to see a tired looking Quinn stepping towards her. She must have finally given up on fighting with her brother.

She swallows and looks down, away from the blonde's piercing blue eyes. "No-one."

Quinn's eyes narrow, clearly not believing her, and they zero in on the phone in her hand. "Is that my phone?"

" . . .No."

. . .

_"There is no greater pain than to remember a happy time when one is in misery." - Dante Alighieri_

. . .

Quinn sighs at Liv's response, knowing that she doesn't have the time nor the patience to deal with this. She thinks that maybe she should be a little more understanding because the girl's obviously had a traumatic night, almost as traumatic as the rest of them, but then her own eyes start to droop a little and she gives up on trying to be empathetic.

"Hand it over," she says in a tone that she deems to be reasonable enough and holds out a hand. Liv bites her lip undecidedly, and glances hesitantly between her and the phone. Reluctantly she hands it over before scampering off towards the bathroom, probably to avoid getting into trouble for being a thief.

Quinn sighs, unable to bother going after her, and raises the cell phone to her ear. "Who's this?"

"Quinn?"

The blonde nearly drops her phone at the sound of Brittany's voice and for a moment all she can do is gape, wondering what ever could have possessed Liv to make an international phone call when Quinn's struggling as it is to buy maternity wear and, more pressingly, what she's going to say to Brittany that doesn't qualify as the truth. Even if she does still think that Puck's kind of wrong about keeping this a secret and honesty, she's learned this year, is usually the best policy.

"B!" she greets a little too shrilly to be comfortable and Puck pokes his head out of the kitchen to look at her in confusion. Quinn shoos him away with a distracted hand and tries to get her voice to back down to its normal level. "How are you?" _A lot better than me, I bet._

"Totally awesome. We went to the zoo yesterday and I got to pet a seal." She pauses and Quinn waits patiently for her to finish, knowing that it's probably going to be about something that no-one but Brittany – or Santana on occasion – could even hope to understand. "Except he smelt really gross and icky, kind of like Jacob's breath that time we kissed, only not as bad. Do you think that Jacob's a seal, or maybe a mermaid? Do mermaids have bad breaths?"

Quinn's eyes widen in horror, wondering what part of that sentence she should attend to first. The idea of Jewfro making out with anyone, let alone Brittany, is not only gross but incredibly disturbing and the knowledge that he has fish-breath only makes it more so. Sometimes, she just can't understand Brittany, at all. She supposes the other girl and Santana have that in common.

Luckily for her, the blonde continues before she has a chance to speak.

"I don't think they do. I mean, Eric kissed Ariel and he seemed totally fine with it. Unless he was just pretending, Rachael says she used to do that sometimes when Finn kissed her after eating anchovies. What are anchovies? They sound like a type of spice."

"Um . . ." Quinn's completely lost and she glances nervously down the hallway, wondering whether Santana's woken up yet. She wonders how the brunette puts up with this on a daily basis, not that she doesn't find Brittany's speeches kind of cute, because they are . . . they're also really confusing to a sleep addled mind. She thinks her head might actually be spinning at the moment and makes a furtive glance at her reflection in the T.V. screen to check.

Nope, head still firmly in place. Well, that's something anyway.

"They're a type of fish . . ." she murmurs distantly, closing her eyes and leaning back against the wall. No-one would really mind if she fell asleep right here, would they?

"Really? Ew. I don't really like to eat fish, S does but I don't. I tried once but then I just felt like I was eating Flounder and I don't think he would appreciate that very much."

Quinn's gaze falls on a picture resting on the table that the T.V. is sitting on. The frame's old and kind of cracked, probably the result of being dropped a couple of times, but the photo inside is untarnished. She reaches out towards it and lifts it from its designated spot, wondering why she's never bothered to look at it properly before, after all her months of living here.

It's from three years ago and she, Santana, Puck, Brittany and Finn are outside in the Puckerman's backyard. She remembers when it was taken and how Santana and Brittany had, in a combined effort, pushed Puck and Finn onto the ground before jumping on top of them pancake style. Quinn was left in the background to laugh at the equally put out looks on the boys' faces before Brittany reached out a hand and pulled her on top of all four of them. It was an extremely precarious position to be in and Puck and Finn had grunted at the weight, but the three girls could hardly care less.

Santana was just in the middle of tickling Puck's neck when Mrs. Puckerman came out, rolled her eyes, and snapped a picture. Just in time, too, for a moment later, after Santana had finally found a sensitive spot in her tickling attack, the whole pyramid came tumbling down.

That had been during their last year of Middle School, before Santana's step-father showed up, before Brittany and Santana's relationship progressed into something far beyond friendship, before she and Finn broke up and their tight-knit gang fell apart, before Quinn got pregnant, before everything went wrong.

Trailing a delicate finger across Santana's smiling face, she finds she wants it back.

"B, I need your help." She hates the way her voice trembles and ignores the drop of water that slides down the front of the photo. The roof's been leaking for the last three weeks, that's all it is.

. . .

"With school work?" Brittany asks curiously, watching herself in the wall length mirror as she does a little twirl to check out the new dress she'd gotten from one of the shops down the street from her grandparent's house. It's short, blue and made of velvety thin material that's really nice to touch, actually that's kind of the only reason the blonde begged her dad to buy it. She likes things that feel nice, like Santana who is really soft and fun to play with.

She smiles at her reflection and remembers the matching dress, only in the colour pink, that she got for Santana as well. Her friend never says anything, but she knows that she likes it when they wear coordinating clothes. The brunette's really sneaky about it but Brittany always catches a little smile on her face when the taller girl makes sure to put on a pair of jeans and a shirt that are close to perfectly matching Santana's own choice of wear.

She's going to make Santana smile when she gets back home.

"What? No, I-" Quinn cuts of abruptly and takes a breath, obviously trying to calm herself. Santana does that too sometimes when they talk, or when she's trying not to punch Quinn because apparently it's not a good idea to hit a person when they've swallowed a fishy. "Look, something bad has happened, Brittany . . . "

She does another spin and this time strikes a pose, trying to keep her face controlled in a mask like the models wear but failing when she breaks out into a grin. Santana's a lot better at this than she is. She's really good at wearing masks, and keeping them in place.

". . . to Santana," the blonde finishes after a pause and Brittany stops mid spin, heart accelerating in her chest and hands flopping down by her sides. The words feel like a slap to the face, not that she's ever experienced that before but it looked painful the one time Santana did it to Puck, and her hands tremble slightly as she imagines all the terrible things that could have happened to her best friend. She hopes she hasn't been eaten by a T-Rex.

"What?" the word catches in her throat and she waits for Quinn to tell her that she's only joking, that's she's not really serious. Santana's invincible, like superman, nothing bad could ever happen to her. "What happened?"

The blonde on the other end lets out a breath. "Nothing you need to worry about. It's just now she's . . . _upset_ and stuff, and I need your help to make her . . . not upset," Quinn finishes lamely and Brittany can almost hear her wince.

She nods quickly and begins searching around for her jacket because it's cold outside. "OK, I'll be right there." She finds it hanging off the ceiling fan, frowns slightly as she tries to remember how it got up there, before shrugging her shoulders and slipping it on. The blonde wonders whether she should take the time to brush her hair but decides against it – Santana needs her more than her hair, even if it is really nice hair.

"B . . . you're in _Holland_," Quinn stresses and Brittany frowns, already knowing this.

"_Yeah_. Did you forget?"

"You're in another country, Brittany. You can't just walk over to Puck's house like you usually do," the other blonde points out and Brittany's frown deepens.

She wonders what Santana is doing over at Puck's house but brushes the thought away for another time and instead heads towards the door of her bedroom. "Well, yeah, I figure it's going to take a little longer than usual but that's why I'm going to borrow Dad's car. I think he's finally starting to forgive me for that last time I crashed it."

"Brittany," Quinn's sounding very exasperated now, "you're on the other side of an ocean. You can't drive."

She shakes her head, though, knowing this isn't a problem for her. "I'm a very good swimmer. I'll be there in about half an hour," she promises before hanging up the phone. She might have liked to talk to Quinn longer but she doesn't want to waste any more time before getting to Santana. Quinn's a great person and she has really pretty eyes but she's definitely not properly equipped to deal with an unhappy Santana. Brittany doubts she even knows how to snuggle.

. . .

Quinn gapes in disbelief at the phone in her hand, trying to come up with something that will explain the conversation she's just had. All she can think of is one word that seems to accurately describe it: Brittany. She sighs and places the picture frame back on the bench, wondering whether she should call up Brittany's parents just to make sure the blonde doesn't _actually_ try to swim across the ocean. She wouldn't really, would she?

She would. For Santana, she would.

Despite herself, a small smile works its way across her mouth and her heart lifts slightly at the determination she had heard in her friend's voice. She wonders whether Brittany or Santana know just how much the blonde is in love with her best friend and that she would do probably anything for her. It's somewhat comforting to know that, even with all this that's going on, there is actually someone who loves Santana more than anything else, even if it's not the person who should, like her mother.

Quinn won't even try to understand the odd relationship – if it can even be called that – going on between the pair, because it's nothing close to normal, but she doesn't think anyone could deny that it's something special. And she's happy for them.

Only, sometimes she gets this feeling in her stomach, like the ceiling's going to eventually fall on their heads and everything, that 'special', will be ruined. Deep down, she doesn't think it can last and she hates herself for not having more faith in them, especially when faith was something she used to carry around with her everywhere she went. She thinks it might be hiding somewhere, hidden beneath a cushion in some stranger's house, and the blonde doesn't know where to begin to look for it.

It's just a few minutes later when Quinn's phone rings and she picks up to hear a rather depressed sounding Brittany on the other end.

"I told my dad why I wanted his car and now he won't let me have it. He says I can't swim to Lima from Holland and he locked the front door after a tried to get out anyway. What do I do now?"

Quinn sighs and shakes her head with a small smile. "All I need right now, is some advice. Can you do that?"

"I can do anything for Santana," comes Brittany's sure sounding voice and, for a moment, the former cheerleader thinks she might even believe her.

. . .

**_Earlier that Year . . . _**

_"I can't believe she gets to be Head Cheerleader," Santana mutters angrily, stabbing at a piece of lettuce on her plate as she and Brittany eat their lunch in the cafeteria. The brunette hasn't actually eaten anything yet, from what Brittany can tell, but her lettuce is definitely starting to look really sad what with all the fork holes and all; poor lettuce. _

_Do lettuces have feelings? She hopes not because if they do that is sure to be one sad lettuce._

_"Who?" the blonde questions, wondering why people always seem to assume that when they start up a random conversation she will automatically know what they're talking about. _

_"Quinn," Santana hisses as if it's obvious. "She's fucking pregnant and no-one knows it. She's still Head Cheerio." Another stab of the fork and the blonde winces sympathetically. "Fuck. I work my but off but it's never good enough, never. She gets everything." The stab of the fork is a lot more forceful this time around and the paper plate actually gets a split down the centre. Brittany flinches back in surprise but her friend doesn't notice. _

_"You're sad," she notes with a sigh, taking in the brunette's hair which is slightly messier than usual and, when she reaches out a hand to touch the girl's own one, she takes in the faint purple mark on the edges of her wrist; Santana bruises easily._

_Santana shakes her head but won't look at her. "I'm not . . . sad. I'm pissed. Why does she get everything?" For as long as Brittany has known her, the brunette has always had a strange kind of jealousy of Quinn, one that's only seemed to intensify over the years. At first, she thought it was because Quinn always had pretty dresses, and then she thought , when they were older, that maybe her best friend wanted Finn but now she's not too sure. _

_She doesn't see anything of Quinn's worth having but Santana obviously doesn't view things the same way she does. Brittany wishes she would because, if she did, Santana would see that she's a million times more perfect than Quinn Fabray could ever be. And that's a lot, Brittany knows, because she tried to count to a million once but she never even got past 98 (and that was after having to restart 30 times). _

_"I wish I could make it better for you," Brittany murmurs quietly, running a finger over the brunette's hand. She really means it, too. She would give anything to make sure that Santana was never sad or pissed or jealous and that she always smiled. Brittany would even stop watching Disney movies if it meant that could happen._

_Santana glances at her momentarily, face torn before looking down at their joined hands. Her own one twitches slightly like it wants to reach out and grasp a hold of Brittany but stills shortly after. Santana has this strange thing about not taking what she wants and only taking what she thinks she wants. It's never made sense to Brittany, she doesn't think it ever will. "Well, you can't," she sighs and, before the blonde can stop her, her hand is gone and she's out of her seat. She's disappeared out the door before the taller girl can even think of chasing her._

_Face falling, Brittany glances around the lunch room, lost. Her eyes spot Jacob Ben Israel in the corner and, like the snake in the garden of Eden, an idea starts to tempt her. "Maybe I can."_

. . .


	10. On the Inside

**A/N: Here's the next chapter, after an embarrassingly long delay. I want to promise to have the next one up soon but my updating skills are terrible and, unfortunately, not only am I really busy but I'm a star procrastinator. Sorry. I hope you enjoy the chapters when I do get around to posting them, though. I'm definitely not going to give up on this story.**

**In response to Lulu: I can definitely see your point and I've already planned out two stories focused around the process you're talking about. But there are just some things I have to get through before that process starts happening. I hope you understand. And you're definitely right about the effects of abuse continuing after it has stopped and I'll be paying close attention to that once I get up to writing those two stories. I have a particular plan in mind for the way it's going to come about but like I said I have to get through some other things in order to get there. Also, speaking as a 16 year old myself, if I was in the same position as either Quinn or Puck or Finn I wouldn't know what to do either. I would think that the responsible thing to do would be to tell somebody else but I would be torn between doing that and respecting the wishes of my friend (who doesn't want anyone to know). I'm not sure whether this is how every other 16 year old would feel but that's just kind of how I'm playing it. I hope my stories won't be too unbearable for you until they reach that point you're talking about, though (I'm being deliberately vague so I don't spoil things too much for the other readers). Hopefully, this plan hasn't disappointed you since I really don't want you to dislike this story and I want you to enjoy it (fingers crossed).**

**. . .**

"_It's just . . . you never really know what's going on inside somebody – do you? You think if you care about them – you know. But you never really do." – Scott Hope, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 'Beauty & the Beast'_

"_The dumber people think you are, the more surprised they're going to be when you kill them." – William Clayton_

_**. . .**_

_The great bundle of Latina that hits Brittany like a basketball moments after leaving Geography is actually Santana. Or, at least, she thinks it's Santana since it smells like her – sharp but sweet. Still, it's kind of hard to tell when all she can see is a black head of hair as it bounces up and down in front of her, and that could belong to anyone. The moment she is wrapped in a familiar pair of tan arms, though, Brittany knows for sure that it is indeed Santana – nobody else could feel so hard but so soft at the same time._

_After about a minute, Brittany finally manages to pull back from the tight embrace she's been entangled in and takes a good look at her best friend, who does not at all look like the same best friend who has been hanging around her all week. No, this one seems almost . . . happy, too happy in fact, not at all miserable like Brittany has become accustomed to. Is it possible that this is in fact an imposter?_

_The blonde gives Santana a studious look, trying to determine whether this is in indeed the case. She _appears_ to be Santana Lopez, she _smells_ like Santana Lopez and she_ feels_ like Santana Lopez but that doesn't quite make up for the fact that she _actsnothing_ like Santana Lopez. _

"_Who are you?" she asks with narrowed eyes, receiving a slightly confused look which quickly disappears to be replaced by the same glee from earlier; __curiouser and curiouser._

"_Uh, your best friend, silly," Santana informs her but Brittany knows that body hijacking aliens could probably say the same thing. "She finally did it!"_

"_Who did what?" Brittany's still not quite catching up, especially when she's trying to indiscreetly search Santana's head for a microchip of some sort like the one she saw on a T.V. show once._

_Santana impatiently bats her hand away which just proves that the alien inside her is on to the blonde. Brittany presses her lips together firmly, more determined than ever._

"_Coach Sylvester. She finally got rid of Quinn!" the brunette exclaims, bouncing up and down slightly in obvious happiness. To Brittany, she seems a little too happy about the fact that one of her best friends has just taken an even more sudden fall from grace, though she's not really one to talk._

_Like in the choir room the week before when Coach Sylvester revealed that she knew of Quinn's pregnancy, Brittany feels a familiar sense of guilt sink in when she is reminded of the fact that everyone now knows about Quinn's secret. The blonde's never really felt guilty about anything in her life before and the new feeling is both unfamiliar and daunting. She already hates it. _

_But then she sees Santana's eyes, devoid of their usual misery that no-one but her seems to see, and she thinks that maybe it's alright to feel this way. Maybe it's alright to do bad things sometimes if it makes Santana happy, because that's all Brittany ever really wants in the end. Quinn has the entire support of the Glee Club to deal with whatever comes her way but Santana only really ever has her and Brittany knows that she has to do whatever possible to make sure that's enough. _

"_You're happy?" she asks, just to make sure. You can never really be certain with Santana, even now if she answers 'yes' Brittany will never know if she's actually telling the truth. The brunette hides it well, she doesn't want anyone to know how good a liar she is. Sometimes, when the blonde stops to really think, she wonders why Santana needs to be such a good liar in the first place and what might be at the root of all her secrets. She wonders what her best friend's hiding and, most of all, why she's hiding it from _her_. Brittany knows that sometimes Santana likes to protect her, like when they're watching horror movies together and she instinctively places a hand over the blonde's eyes and tells her to block her ears. But Brittany also knows that she's not as breakable as some like to think and she can take whatever it is that the brunette's trying to keep hidden. She can take anything for Santana._

_Even if Santana's secret is that she's actually one of those __Munchkin__s out of 'the Wizard of Oz' – and Brittany always found those terrifying. _

"_Well, yeah, why wouldn't I be?" Santana responds in a 'duh' tone of voice that makes Brittany's lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile; it's not a lie, she can tell that much. Reaching down, she interlocks their pinkies, something that the two of them haven't done since Santana first got all bad moody, and squeezes tight. Glancing down, she eyes the wrist of her friend, taking in its flawless appearance as opposed to when she saw it last week in the cafeteria. Santana may bruise easily, there's not much to be done for that, but she always heals well in the end. Brittany's never seen her so hurt before that she can't repair herself and the blonde hopes that she never will. _

"_Because you get sad sometimes," Brittany tells her quietly, leaning forward slightly as if she's revealing some well-kept secret that no-one but her knows about. That's actually kind of the truth. "But I want you to know, S, that I won't ever let you stay sad, scout's honour . . . even though I don't know what that means."_

_The steel brown of Santana's eyes turns into a warm liquid colour, like hot coco, and her lips part for a moment, as if there's something she wants to say but she can't quite get the words out. Instead, she squeezes Brittany's pinkie with her own and offers a faint smile that looks almost chocked. "I do know."_

_The two of them walk down the hall together, pinkies tangled, and when Brittany catches sight of Quinn struggling not to cry by her locker, her heart only does a slight imitation of the squeeze it's been doing all week. She'll never forget this, Brittany knows, not like the other things that easily slip her mind. There's a weight on her shoulders now, one that was never there before, and although no-one will ever know that it was her that turned Quinn Fabray's world upside down, Brittany knowing is more than enough. _

_Quinn sees her and wipes hurriedly at her eyes, offering a small smile to the pair of them. Santana rolls her eyes and ignores her but Brittany beams and waves a hand with a happiness and energy she doesn't feel, no-one notices this. Turning from Quinn, she thinks that acting's not nearly as hard as her drama teacher made it sound and can suddenly see the appeal it holds for Santana. She wonders if either of them knows how to stop, though._

_. . ._

"I can do anything for Santana," Brittany breathes, gazing down at Santana's new dress sprawled across her bed. Delicately, she fingers the soft pink material and imagines what her best friend will look like in it. Really pretty, she decides, like a princess.

It's a lie, what she's just told Quinn. There are a lot of things she can't do for Santana, so many that it hurts her heart just to think about them. She can't make the bruises go away, she can't prevent the nightmares at night when they're lying in bed together, and she can't make Santana stop acting.

But there are some things Brittany _can _do. She can buy Santana a pretty princess dress, she can make her best friend smile and laugh, she can hurt Quinn just to make the brunette feel better about not being on top and she can wait, she can wait for the truth, whatever it is.

She can do all of that and Brittany just hopes it's enough.

The blonde wonders what's made Santana sad this time but finds that it doesn't really matter because her best friend's _sad _and that's all she'll ever really need to know. As long as Brittany can always tell when the brunette's sad, even when others can't, the reasons behind it don't matter, just as long as she can still fix it. And she always seems to find some way of fixing it.

Only, now Brittany's somewhere far, far away, across the Little Mermaid's Ocean too, and Quinn and Daddy are both telling her she can't swim back to the brunette's side. She's never not been able to go to Santana when she needs her and being unable to now has her kind of fuzzy in the head and her eyes are sort of stinging, like that one time Mr. and Mrs. Pierce made the mistake of leaving the two girls alone together in the kitchen to make dinner. The story involved a lot of onions and Brittany having a crying fit about how the stinging in her eyes was obviously a defence mechanism of the onions, meaning they definitely didn't want to get eaten and therefore it would only be evil to chop them up. It took Santana two hours to calm her back down and by that time her parents had given up and ordered take-out Thai.

They conveniently forgot to mention that the Thai had chopped up onions in it.

"Is she OK, Q?" She has to know, she really, really has to know whether Santana's alright or not. Because she can't help when she's not there and if it's really bad and she can't help her then she can't fix her and Brittany can't not fix Santana because she would be broken and broken is a bad, bad thing and Brittany doesn't want Santana to be broken and–

"She will be," Quinn promises, though the dancer doesn't think she sounds so sure.

Her mouth works for a moment but she can't find the right words. "Is she broken?" What if she really is broken and now she's in pieces? What then, how will Quinn sticky-tape the pieces back together when everyone knows Brittany's the only one who's ever known how? What if Santana stays in pieces and when Brittany gets back it's too late to do anything about it?

"Hell no, it takes a lot to break Santana Lopez, top bitch of the school," the other blonde denies, though Brittany thinks her voice sounds just a little too chocked to be truthful. "You know that, B. She's strong."

Sometimes, Brittany wonders whether that's really such a good thing. Because, sometimes, she thinks that maybe Santana believes she's so strong that nothing can hurt her. The blonde knows her best friend's invincible, that goes without saying, but even invincible things can be hurt. It's just not as obvious as when it happens to other people. The wounds are on the inside, invisible unless you really look for them. And no-one ever really does.

The blonde doesn't say any of this, though, and instead just settles for a simple, "She likes to pretend," that probably just confuses Quinn more than anything.

. . .

Quinn settles herself on the sofa before remembering that it's the same one that was attacked by blood and vomit just last night. Sure, she cleaned it up but the cushions are still looking a little gross. Nose wrinkling, the blonde rises back up and instead places herself on the arm of the couch, one hand holding the cell-phone up to her ear and the other massaging soothing circles onto her growing stomach.

Beth hasn't kicked once yet today and she hates to admit it but a part of her is actually worried. She knows stress isn't good for the baby and at the back of her mind wonders whether she should get herself checked out just to be safe. Then there's a part of her that is firmly convinced that she's just over-reacting and even babies in the womb still need their sleep. But, screw it, she's having mini panic attacks over everything else, why not this too?

They've been talking for a while now and her eyes anxiously scan the clock, counting down the minutes until she'll have to drag Puck away from the video games in his room and get in his car to go to school. It's a good thing she's already dressed. "So, when Santana's upset, what do you do?" Quinn asks, hoping that the other blonde will for once be able to give her a straight answer.

"Lots of things," she says airily and Quinn can hear the faint sound of a clank in the background causing her to furrow her brow in confusion. "_Oops_. OK, well, usually we have sex."

Quinn doesn't know whether to be baffled or mortified by the comment, and her skin can't seem to decide whether to lose all colour or whether to just turn a horrible shade of red. For the sake of her dignity, it's a good thing she's alone right now. "I can't sleep with Santana, Brittany," the blonde hisses, proud of the fact that her voice doesn't rise to shouting level.

"That's OK, I don't think there would be a lot of sleeping involved."

And Quinn just has to laugh because it's classic Brittany; it's Brittany still being _Brittany_ even in a time like this, and it's so ridiculous and unexpected that it's funny. Only, it's really not funny at all because nothing about this is funny and really it's only a relief but she's laughing anyway because it's absurd and she can't stop and-

"Are you OK, Q? You sound like you're a bit historical," Brittany's voice breaks into her thoughts, sounding concerned and Quinn raises a hand to her head, letting out a deep breath. The laughter has stopped but the sound of it is still ringing in her ears.

"Hysterical, B, you mean hysterical," she corrects just because she doesn't have anything else to say, or maybe to avoid having to say anything else.

"Yeah, are you going to cry?"

"No, Britt, I'm not," she sighs and hears the last sounds of laughter leave her head, almost as if they were never there in the first place. It's only the bitter taste left over in her mouth that convinces her they actually were.

"That's good. I don't like it when you cry," the other blonde informs her truthfully and Quinn is reminded of just how refreshing Brittany's blatant honesty is. She doesn't sugar coat things or try to reveal them in a certain fashion that would benefit herself, she just . . . tells the truth, or at least what seems to be the truth in her head. She says what she feels; a rare commodity.

Quinn doesn't think she's ever met anybody else like that and she's glad to have had the fortune of knowing Brittany.

"Thanks, B. But seriously, what do you normally do?" Quinn tries again because there is no way that she's getting naked with Santana, _ever;_ especially after she just had that rant to Puck. Quinn doubts the brunette would appreciate the idea anymore than her, anyhow.

"That _is_ what I normally do. I snuggle with her. Or I have sex with her. Or I give her the name of somebody who wants to have sex with her," the blonde insists and Quinn cringes at the idea of doing any one of those things. Snuggling might be acceptable, in a totally weird and awkward way, if she didn't already know that Santana would bite her for ever considering to do such a thing. "It makes her feel better."

"Is there anything else?" _Please, please, let there be something else._

Brittany thinks about it for a moment. "Sometimes I give her a slushie to throw at Rachael. But that's out because Rachael's not allowed to get a Slushie Facial from Santana for, like, a long time still. Have you tried giving her a kiss?"

Quinn blushes and tries to imagine Berry covered in sugary corn syrup rather than the horrifying visual her friend has just painted for her; ew. "Not an option, B."

"Oh. Well, OK. I mean, if you really don't want to help Santana-"

Quinn doesn't know which is more ridiculous. The fact that Brittany, who is quite possibly in love with her best friend, is trying to convince her to make out with her or that _Brittany _is trying to guilt trip her for not wanting to do exactly that. Since when does Brittany guilt-trip anyone? Since when does Brittany know _how_ to guilt-trip?

This week's just full of surprises.

"Just give me anything else, Brittany, anything else that doesn't involve Santana locking lips with anyone, especially me."

There's silence on the Cheerio's end for a moment as she ponders what to suggest and Quinn sighs, massaging her temple with her free hand. These two girls are going to drive her insane one day.

"I've got it!" Brittany announces gleefully after a pause and Quinn bites her lip apprehensively. For all she knows, the other girl is about to suggest she take Santana to Disney Land. "I know just the person who can make her feel better, and not in a kinky way."

Thank, God. "Who?"

"Elvis Presley!"

Or she could just suggest something even more insane. Quinn's mouth works for a moment, unable to speak in the light of this new idea. "Uh, B, you do know Elvis has been dead for the past I-don't-know-how-many-years?" She almost feels bad for saying this when she hears the sound of Brittany's devastated voice on the phone.

"What? Really? But . . . That's so sad. I can't believe it. He always looks so healthy on T.V. Oh my God, you have to promise not to tell San, she'll be so upset if you do," Brittany panics, causing Quinn to want to raise an eyebrow in disbelief. She is way too tired to be having a conversation like this. God, how is she going to survive school?

"Uh . . .sure, B," she promises hesitantly and hears a relieved sigh from Brittany. "But why did you think that Elvis would help things?" She really doesn't see the connection.

"Oh, well, Santana loves Elvis, you know. I mean, really loves. She spent all her pocket money when she was nine on getting every last one of his albums . . . but they got ruined somehow last year, I don't really know how. But that's OK because she just downloaded the songs off the internet, which she still hasn't taught me how to do by the way."

Quinn laughs slightly at that whilst inwardly trying to fight off the bite that comes from the knowledge that she never knew this about Santana. It's such a simple fact and not all that important but still . . . she feels like she should have known. "I think we better wait until you actually know how to turn on a computer before taking that giant leap." She hears a grumble on Brittany's end and chuckles slightly before sobering up. "But do you really think something to do with Elvis could make her feel better?"

"Maybe. We usually listen to his songs when she comes over. They always make her smile."

Quinn smiles, slightly relieved at this newfound information. It's not perfect but she might be able to work with it. "I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Britt. Um . . . there's something I wanted to ask you, though."

"Mm?" There's another smashing sound and Quinn winces, not wanting to imagine just what Brittany has managed to break this time. It sounds expensive. "Oh, berry, Dad's gonna kill me." The blonde does raise an eyebrow this time as she hears her friend's chosen expletive but decides not to question it.

"Why haven't you called Santana yet?" Quinn asks, more curious than anything else. She doesn't want to jump on Brittany or anything and accuse her of neglecting her best friend; after all, for all she knows the blonde could have dropped her phone in a toilet somewhere. Quinn did that to her sister's cell phone once but she dried it off with a hair dryer afterwards and it seemed to work OK; sort of. She still hasn't told her sister what happened, though. "I mean, you guys are usually texting back and forth every ten seconds, even when you're standing right next to each other."

"I forgot her phone number," Brittany murmurs guiltily and Quinn frowns, starting to feel sorry for her before she actually remembers something.

"It's on your speed dial, Britt," she reminds in an exasperated tone.

"Oh, right," Brittany responds, tone back to its usual lightness. Quinn hears the distinct sound of a laugh and rolls her eyes slightly, amused despite herself. "Brunette moment," she giggles, causing the pregnant teen to pause.

"You mean blonde," she corrects, though she's always felt slightly offended by blonde jokes and wonders whether she should be helping Brittany out with fixing up her one-liner in the first place.

"But I'm blonde all the time," Brittany counters, sounding more confused than ever and Quinn lets out a small chuckle; _you're telling me_.

"Never mind, B. Listen, I've got to go to school," she says, glancing back towards the clock. "I'll talk to you later OK."

"OK," she says, still sounding a little confused. Quinn just knows she probably has one of those adorable looks on her face and wishes she could be there to see it, maybe even take a picture to show to Santana later; now _that_ would put the brunette in a better mood. "And, Q? Tell S I love her."

Quinn smiles fondly to herself at the uncalled for concern she hears in the other girl's voice. "She knows that, B." It would be impossible for Santana not to know, the blonde's so obvious with her feelings. After all, Quinn has never known 'subtle' to be a word in Brittany Pierce's vocabulary.

The other blonde still isn't convinced, though. "Yeah, but sometimes she forgets. Like how I forgot that one time that Abbey was in the water bucket. The one I tipped out back when she was a baby, remember?"

At this, Quinn seriously starts to worry for the life of Brittany's little sister and wonders how the girl ever survived through her toddler years. "No, B, I don't remember." Thank God, she thinks to herself, inwardly wondering what Abbey was doing in a water bucket in the first place or why the Pierce's would even consider letting Brittany within ten feet of their baby daughter. Brittany's harmless, really, but only when she's not around anything easily breakable. Although, Quinn has to admit that she's very good at mending broken things, maybe she has to be. "But I'll tell her." She's not really sure how she's going to throw 'Brittany loves you' into a conversation with Santana but she'll work it out somehow. Maybe she'll get the brunette drunk and that way she'll be too dazed to ever think about hitting Quinn for even broaching the conversation topic.

She goes to hang up but is stopped by Brittany's soft voice that sounds somehow different than what she's used to.

"And, Q?"

"Yeah, B?"

"I'm really sorry," the blonde murmurs and the line goes dead. Quinn frowns and pockets the phone, wondering what Brittany could ever have to be sorry about. The Cheerio's the only person who's never really intentionally tried to hurt Quinn before in her life and she loves her for it. What would Brittany be sorry for?

Quinn shrugs it off, though, realizing that it's Brittany and that, for all she knows, the girl's just upset about throwing up on the blonde's favourite dress last time she was sick. She smiles and shakes her head, doubting that she could ever be sorry for anything worse than that.

. . .

Brittany's father is tall like her and has muscles like Puck, though thankfully he doesn't have any of her girl boobs and also has a lot more hair than Puck. She pauses momentarily, wondering what her Daddy would look like with those things and frowns, not liking the picture at all. He's sitting at her grandparents' table in the dining room now, going over some papers for work and frowning slightly every now and again. The blonde's not really sure what her father does for work, only that it involves lots of papers and sometimes drawings. She likes the drawings the most but she's not really allowed near those anymore after that one time she drew hearts and 'S+B forevers' all over them in crayon and red lipstick. She remembers that incident because for, like, months afterwards, whenever Santana would come around her Daddy would get this weird look on his face and he even starting poking his head into her room at night when the two of them were sleeping. That last part stopped after Mummy smacked him on the back of the head and told him he was being an idiot.

"Daddy?" she asks in a small voice, wondering whether if she puts on the crocodile tears he'll finally cave and give her the car keys. It's worth a shot.

He looks up from his work and smiles at her with big white teeth that she always finds nice to look at. "Hey, pumpkin," he greets and Brittany smiles at her lifelong nickname, even though she really doesn't see how she resembles a pumpkin. She's not even orange and nobody puts candles inside her head on Halloween, that would just really hurt. What if her brain caught fire? "Why the long-face?"

Brittany's eyes widen in sudden worry and she reaches up to touch her face, checking for any new changes. "My face has stretched?"

He chuckles at her words and shakes his head. "No, honey, it's just a saying. It means you look unhappy."

"Oh," she sighs; that's a relief. She wonders whether Santana would still find her pretty if her face suddenly got all long like a horse's. Does Santana even like horses? She'll have to ask. "Are you sure I can't have the car keys? I promise I won't crash again. I'll even make sure to get out of the car _before_ I get in the ocean. It won't be anything like that time on the 4th of July. Promise."

But her father just looks apologetic and she knows she's not getting anywhere. "Sorry, Pumpkin." Her face drops and she scuffs her shoes against the flooring, wishing she could teleport herself to the Puckerman household and be there for Santana herself. She thinks Quinn's great and all but she doesn't in any way believe that she has the necessary skills to deal with a situation of this magnitude. Quinn wouldn't even agree to snuggle with Santana or give her sweet lady kisses. Not that she would ever be able to do those things as well as Brittany but it still would have been a start. "Hey, don't be sad. I'm sure things aren't as bad as you think they are."

Brittany glances up at him, eyes pleading. "But Santana needs me."

"And she'll still need you when you get back." He smiles comfortingly at her but Brittany just continues to pout. "I know it seems hard to believe now, but you guys _can_ spend a week apart from one another." The blonde doubts this very much since they've never had to do it before, not after they first became friends. Even at the times Brittany would go for her yearly holiday to Holland, Santana would always come with her. It's just, this time, her grandma was kind of sick and her mother thought it best to just bring the family. She also muttered something about her grandma not appreciating some of the sounds that always came from the room Brittany and Santana would usually share. Brittany couldn't help that part, though – Santana's just naturally loud.

He sighs, sensing how unconvinced she is, and pats his knee in invitation. "Come here, Pumpkin." Brittany does so eagerly, settling herself comfortably on his knee just like she always did when she was younger. She still does it sometimes now, as well, but not as much because for some reason she's gotten too heavy for her Daddy in the past few years. "I don't exactly know what's going on with Santana, only that something's wrong as you told me, but I do know this. And even though I'm aware you may not believe it right now, Santana's stronger than she looks. And considering she already looks strong, that's pretty damn strong." She frowns at him, still doubtful and he notices this. "Look, remember that time she broke her arm. It must have hurt like hell but she refused to cry, not one single tear. And that was because you were doing most of the crying for her. She didn't want to scare you anymore than you already were. She's strong like that, Britt."

Brittany sighs and traces a finger over his big, chunky hand that she finds so much rougher than Santana's – the person whose hand she actually wants to be touching right now. "I don't want her to protect me. I want to protect her. But I can't do that if I'm not there."

"Pumpkin, I promise that the minute we get back you can do all the protecting you need. You can even have her over at our place for the rest of week, as long as her mum agrees," he reassures with that same big toothy smile and Brittany can't help but beam in response. Unfortunately, she remembers something and her smile falls.

"Daddy, I think I did something bad," she admits quietly, provoking a frown of concern out of father.

"What did you do, honey?"

"Santana was upset, so I did something bad to make her feel better. And it worked but I still . . . I don't know if it was OK," she reveals, eyes troubled as she thinks over what she did to Quinn. She had to make Santana feel better, that's always the number one rule, but she still hurt Quinn in the process and Brittany hates to hurt people.

He frowns at her words. "Does Santana know that you did this bad thing?"

Brittany shakes her head, refusing to look at him. She doesn't suddenly want him to think that she's a bad, bad person, like Lex Luthor off Superman. Her parents are the only people besides Santana who are ever really proud of her, even though she can't spell as well as Abbey or get top grades like her older sister, Kasey. She's just Brittany and they're proud of her for that.

Her father sighs and pulls him closer to her, which is a big step up from pushing her away in revulsion. "Well, the important thing is: is that you feel guilty over what you did. Am I right?"

Brittany nods her head, still too afraid to look at him. "Yes, Daddy."

"Hey, look at me, Pumpkin," he says, reaching out a hand and cocking up her chin with a reassuring smile. "It's OK. Now, I don't know if this is really advice that I should be giving to you, God knows you'll manage to warp it into something disastrous, but we all do bad things every once and while, with some of us it's _more_ than every once and a while. And sometimes, when we're in love, we do a lot more bad things, and the things we do because of love aren't always _right_. But they're hardly ever wrong either," he tells her firmly.

Brittany's not surprised that he knows she's in love with Santana, even if she's never voiced the fact before. Her parents know everything about her, either because she tells them or they work it out by themselves; she never tries to hide anything from them. She even told them about the first time she ever slept with anybody – it was with Santana – seven months after that crayon incident with her dad's papers. She didn't tell them it was with Santana, though – the Latina had told her that even miracle parents like her own can only take so much at one time, shortly after saying that Brittany had completely misinterpreted the meaning of being a sneaky teenager and shouldn't even be telling her parents _anything_ in the first place – but she still told them about the sex part. And things were OK after that, even if she did have to sit through a really confusing and weird conversation about safety; Brittany never knew that sex was such a dangerous sport. Oh well, she can hardly remember any of that conversation now.

But even though her parents are great, especially her Daddy, they still don't see that sadness in Santana so she keeps that one thing to herself. It's the only secret she's never told them about because, in a rare moment of spite, she decided that if they couldn't see it for themselves then they didn't deserve to know. And maybe Santana didn't want them to know either.

She thinks over her dad's words and wonders how something can be not right but not wrong either. Does that even make any sense? She sighs and leans back into her father's chest, closing her eyes as he wraps his arms tighter around her. She wishes she could do this same thing for Santana, she knows it would make her smile. "Why is everything so confusing?"

Her dad just chuckles, which she doesn't find helpful at all.

. . .

_**A/N: I felt this chapter was important because although I love innocent and childish Brittany I felt that she needed a bit more maturity in her. This is mostly because of the fact that I found it a little strange and even slightly unnerving that, on the show, she seems to be simply an overgrown child yet she's having sex with all these people. I don't know if anyone else feels the same way but I tried to create a bit of a blend between that Brittany and one who's a little older and a little less innocent. I hope I succeeded. Oh, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter. **_


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